J 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


•V 


TRUE  TO  THE  LAST; 


OB 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE  WIDE  SEA, 


BY    A.    S.    KOE, 


AUTHOR  OP  "I'VE  BEEN  THINKING,"   "TO  LOVE  AND  TO  BE  LOVED,"   "A  LONG  LOOK 
AHBAD,"  "THE  STAB  AND  THE  CLOUD,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK : 
DERBY  &  JACKSON,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 

1868. 


KNTKKKI,  according  to  Act  of  Congrem,  in  the  year  1858,  by 

DERBY    &    JACKSON,  . 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


W.  II.  TIKIION,  Stereotyper,  GEORGE  RUSSELI.  &  Co.,  Printer., 

Rear  of  43  A  «  Centre  St.,  N.  V.  61  Beekman  St.,  N.  Y. 


PS 


TRUE    TO    THE    LAST; 


OR, 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA. 


CHAPTER     I. 

% 

"  OH,  mother  dear !  Do  let  Louise  and  me  get  into  that  boat 
— please  do  mother! 

"  What  if  it  should  get  loose  ?  You  girls  would  be  finely 
fixed  !  But  you  may  jump  into  it  if  you  wish." 

And  the  two  sprightly  young  creatures  sprang,  as  soon  as 
the  permit  was  given,  and  running  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  in  a 
moment  more  were  tumbling  over  the  sides,  and  towards  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  and  there  seating  themselves  on  the  rough 
board  which  answered  for  a  seat,  began  very  industriously  to 
rock  the  little  craft  from  side  to  side,  and  were  in  high  glee 
at  witnessing  the  commotion  which  they  were  enabled  to 
make  in  the  waters  of  the  creek. 

The  boat  had  not  been  fastened,  and  only  retained  its  posi 
tion  by  resting  its  bow  upon  the  sand — the  owner,  doubtless, 
considering  it  perfectly  secure  for  some  time  at  least,  as  the 
tide  was  just  commencing  to  run  out,  and  every  moment 
would  be  giving  it  a  stronger  hold  upon  "  terra  firma." 

The  creek,  as  we  have  called  the  stream  of  water,  was  one 
of  those  little  openings  in  the  salt  marsh,  by  which  a  mill-race 
found  access  to  an  inlet  from  the  Sound.  It  was  not  very 
wide,  being,  where  the  boat  lay,  only  a  few  rods  across,  but 
it  gradually  enlarged,  until  towards  its  mouth  it  obtained 


608890 


4  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  ;   OR, 

quite  a  breadth,  and  on  each  side,  commencing  near  where 
the  little  party  were  standing ;  there  was  spread  out  a  large 
extent  of  marsh. 

A  lady  and  two  girls,  the  latter  somewhere  between  twelve 
and  fourteen  years  of  age,  had  been  roaming  among  the  rocks 
and  cedars  which  abounded  in  that  vicinity,  and  had  ex 
tended  their  walk  to  the  very  border  of  the  marsh,  and  per 
haps  intended  to  take  a  view  of  a  little  old  mill,  and  its 
adjoining  dwelling-house,  whose  roofs  could  be  seen  just 
peeping  out  from  their  snug  nest  between  the  hills,  through 
which  ran  the  stream  above  alluded  to  ;  when  the  boat,  attract 
ing  the  notice  of  the  girls,  they  made  the  request  with  which 
our  chapter  begins. 

The  lady  did  not  probably  notice  that  the  boat  had  nothing 
to  secure  it  to  the  shore  but  its  own  weight,  or  she  would  not 
have  felt  so  easy  while  the  children  were  thus  enjoying  them 
selves  upon  an  element  to  which  they  were  not  accustomed — 
nor  did  she  notice  that  the  boat,  with  its  precious  freight  was 
each  moment  losing  its  hold  upon  the  land — until  she  heard 
a  loud  call  from  each  of  them. 

"  Oh,  mother !  Oh,  aunt !    what  shall  we  do  ?" 

In  haste,  the  lady  rushed  to  their  rescue,  but  the  boat,  ex 
cited  by  the  previous  motion,  had  floated  too  far  for  her  hand 
to  reach  it. 

"  An  oar,  girls,  quick!   reach  me  an  oar  !" 

The  oars  lay  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  and  it  took  some 
little  time  before  one  could  be  released  from  its  position,  and 
when  put  over  the  side,  and  towards  the  shore,  fell  far  short 
of  the  hand  that  was  extended  to  meet  it ;  and  as  it  plashed 
into  the  water,  a  loud  laugh  from  the  girls  showed,  that  to 
them,  at  least,  it  was  a  fine  frolic.  The  lady,  however,  did 
not  feel  quite  at  rest,  although  she  had  the  good  sense  not  to 
manifest  much  uneasiness,  and  said  in  a  calm,  pleasant  tone  of 
voice : 

"You  must  row  yourselves  ashore  now — I  cannot  help 
you." 

And  then,  apparently,  in  a  careless  manner,  she  looked 
around,  as  though  surveying  the  prospect,  but  in  reality  to 
ascertain  if  any  one  was  in  sight  to  whom  she  might  apply 
for  assistance — without  it  she  could  see  no  possible  way  by 
which  the  boat  and  its  passengers  could  be  regained,  for  their 


ALONE    Oi;    A    WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  5 

efforts  with  the  oars  only  added  to  the  power  of  the  tide, 
which  was  slowly  but  steadily  bearing  them  beyond  reach. 

Not  content  with  looking  for  help,  she  at  once,  with  mo 
derate  pace,  walked  up  the  rising  ground  in  the  direction  of 
the  mill,  and  to  her  great  joy  espied  the  miller  himself,  or 
one  whom  she  took  for  him,  walking  leisurely  towards  her,  or 
more  properly  towards  the  spot  where  the  boat  had  lain. 

As  he  approached,  he  raised  his  hat  and  made  a  polite 
obeisance,  without  speaking.  He  was  a  large  man — that  is, 
he  was  well  filled  out,  and  looked  the  very  picture  of  what  a 
miller  ought  to  be — a  sample  of  good  living,  and  with  a  clear, 
or  at  least,  an  easy  conscience.  He  had  no  coat  on,  and 
when  he  removed  his  hat,  out  of  respect  for  the  lady,  he  kept 
it  in  his  hand — no  doubt  for  the  benefit  of  what  little  air 
might  be  stirring. 

"  What— what,  what !     The  boat  is  off,  ha !" 

"  I  fear,  sir,  my  children  have  put  you  to  inconvenience,  if 
that  boat  is  yours.  It  was  very  thoughtless  in  me  to  allow 
them  to  get  into  it,  but  it  was  lying  apparently  very  secure 
upon  the  shore,  and  it  was  such  a  novelty  to  them  to  be  in  a 
boat,  at  their  entreaty  I  permitted  them  to  take  a  seat  in 
it,  not  dreaming  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  its  floating 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence  at  all,  madam,  so  far  as  I  am  con 
cerned,  but  I  am  thinking  how  we  are  to  get  at  them,"  and 
then  raising  his  voice  to  a  high  pitch,  "  Children — children, 
— paddle  the  other  way,  you  are  rowing  yourselves  down 
stream  !" 

The  girls  heard  and  understood  his  meaning,  and  endea 
vored  to  obey  instructions,  but  perfectly  unused  to  oars,  they 
merely  managed  to  turn  the  prow  towards  the  shore,  and  be 
ing  near  the  bank  opposite  to  that  from  which  they  had  start 
ed,  ran  her  into  the  mud. 

"  There !"  said  the  lady,  "  they  have  got  to  the  shore  ;  but 
how  shall  we  get  at  them  ?" 

"They  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  got  to  the  shore,  madam ; 
they  have  got  into  the  mud,  and  as  to  getting  at  them,  or 
they  getting  to  us  from  that  part  of  the  marsh,  it  is  an  im 
possible  thing !  nothing  but  a  frog  or  a  mud  turtle  can  keep 
on  the  top  of  such  a  quagmire,  and  the  fact  is,  our  side  of 
the  creek  ain't  much  better.  I  should  no  more  dare  to  ven- 


6  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST  ;    OR, 

ture,  with  my  weight  of  body,  on  it,  than  I  would  try  to 
walk  across  the  creek ;  I  might,  may  be,  in  that  case,  help 
myself  a  little  with  my  hands,  but  the  marsh  would  be  a  dead 
set — I  should  have  to  stay  where  I  stuck. 

In  the  meantime  the  girls,  as  though  conscious  that  no 
landing  could  be  effected  there,  put  an  oar  out  into  the  mud 
and  began  pushing  off.  The  boat  readily  yielded  to  their 
united  force,  but  the  oar  had  gone  too  far  into  the  soft  sub 
stance  to  be  easily  removed,  and  in  a  moment  more  it  was 
left  sticking  where  it  had  been  placed.  The  girls  still  un- 
alarmed,  and  thoughtless  of  consequences,  shouted  again  with 
merriment,  and  commenced  paddling  with  the  other  oar, 
which  only  caused  the  boat  to  perform  various  evolutions,  but 
without  much  retarding  its  progress  towards  the  mouth  of 
the  creek. 

The  old  miller  now  began  to  manifest  great  uneasiness ;  be 
had  thrown  his  hat  down,  and  kept  walking  about  and  wiping 
his  forehead,  and  muttering  to  himself,  and  would  no  doubt 
have  run  off  somewhere  and  called  for  help ;  but  running 
was  a  thing  not  to  be  thought  of  in  his  condition  of  body,  and 
no  one  was  in  sight  to  whom  he  could  apply. 

"  What  shall  be  done,  sir !  I  begin  to  feel  very  uneasy  ; 
they  will  most  certainly  be  carried  beyond  all  reach  ;  can  I 
not  go  through  the  marsh  ?" 

"  Mercy  on  your  soul !  why,  madam,  it  is  utterly  impossible  ; 
the  heavens  and  the  earth !  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  nor 
where  to  go  ;  oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  stop  your  paddling — put 
up  the  oar!" 

He  called  out  now  at  the  very  extent  of  his  voice.  The 
girls  heard,  and  very  soon  the  boat  ceased  its  gyrations,  and 
very  quietly  glided  along  further  and  further  into  the  wider 
waters,  and  would  very  soon  be  in  the  outer  inlet,  and  in  a 
very  exposed  situation,  and  no  boat  of  any  kind  was  in  sight. 
To  crown  all,  the  clouds  were  gathering  for  a  storm,  and  the 
mutterings  of  distant  thunder  had  more  than  once  been  heard. 
The  lady  now  resolved  to  go  herself  in  quest  of  aid,  and  was 
just  starting  towards  the  road  which  led  by  the  mill,  deter 
mined  to  proceed  to  the  adjoining  town,  if  assistance  could 
not  be  procured  short  of  that.  It  was  indeed  a  fearful  mo 
ment,  and  although  she  appeared  to  have  much  presence  of 
mind  and  good  courage,  yet  her  pallid  countenance  betrayed 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  f 

the  terrible  anxiety  she  suffered.  Just  at  that  moment  a  boy 
came  running  from  a  direction  opposite  to  the  mill,  and  from 
the  very  field  of  cedars  in  which  the  little  party  had  been 
enjoying  themselves.  He  had  been  running,  doubtless,  for 
some  distance,  for  he  looked  quite  heated,  and  was  somewhat 
out  of  breath. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  marsh  he  threw 
down  his  hat,  off  with  his  coat — a  pretty  blue  round-about — 
pulled  off  his  shoes  and  stockings,  and  rolled  up  his 
pantaloons. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Henry  ?"  The  miller  had 
come  up  to  him  by  the  time  he  was  performing  the  last  opera 
tion,  and  so  had  the  lady ;  for  the  moment  she  saw  the  boy 
she  determined  to  apply  to  him,  that  he  might  run  off  and 
get  help. 

"  They  will  be  out  in  the  wide  water,  Mr.  Malcolm,  if  some 
one  don't  help  them." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  are  going  to  do,  sir !  you  can't  swim  to 
them,  and  you  shan't  try  it !"  The  old  man  spoke  loud,  for 
he  was  much  excited. 

"  I  shan't  swim  until  I  get  nearer  to  them  than  I  am  now, 
Mr.  Malcolm." 

"  Oh,  won't  you,  my  dear  boy,  just  run  as  fast  as  you  can  ; 
oh,  I  will  handsomely  reward  you — do  run  and  get  some  men 
to  help  us." 

"  There  is  no  boat  near,  madam,  if  the  men  were  here,  and 
before  I  could  get  help  they  may  be  driven  out  into  the  Sound." 
And  with  that  the  little  fellow  stepped  fearlessly  into  the 
marsh,  and  although  sinking  deep  at  every  step,  contrived  to 
make  progress  towards  the  mouth  of  the  creek. 

"  I  don't  know — oh  dear !  I  am  afraid  I  hadn't  ought  to 
have  let  him ;  what  would  his  mother  say  if  anything  should 
happen  to  him  ?  Oh  dear,  suz  me  !  It's  a  dreadful  unlucky 
thing  all  round." 

"Is  that  your  son,  sir?     Oh,  I  have  been  much  to  blame." 

"It  is  not  my  son,  madam ;  I  ain't  got  chick  nor  child  of 
my  own — there,  there !  I'm  afraid  he's  stuck — no,  he's  out 
again.  He  is  a  son  of  an  old  neighbor.  His  father  is  dead, 
and  his  mother,  foolish  woman — pardon  me,  madam,  women 
do  foolish  things  sometimes  as  well  as  men — but  she's  gone 
and  married  again,  and  is  ill  mated,  as  I  take  it.  There,  he's 


8  TKUE  TO   THE   LAST  J   OB, 

clear  down.  Henry,  come  back!"  The  voice  was  loud 
enough,  and  the  boy  heard,  for  as  he  arose  he  raised  his  hand; 
but  he  had  no  idea  of  returning,  and  still  floundered  on  his  way. 
"  Oh,  he  is  a  brave  boy,  God  grant  no  evil  may  happen 
to  him." 

"  I  say  amen  to  that,  madam." 

"  But  how  is  he  to  get  to  the  boat,  my  good  sir  ?  it  is  so  far 
from  the  land." 

"  I  don't  know,  madam,  my  head  is  dreadful  dizzy.  If  they 
only  knew  enough  to  work  that  oar  they  might,  maybe,  crawl 
a  little  nearer  to  the  shore.  I  don't  know  what  he'll  do  with 
out  he  swims  to  them,  and  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  clean  tuckered 
out  before  he  gets  opposite  to  them.  It's  amazing  hard  work 
travelling  through  such  a  quagmire.  And  then  if  the  wind 
should  rise — well,  we  might  as  well  be  easy ;  they're  all  of 
them  now  beyond  our  help ;  we  can't  even  holler  to  'em — did 
you  ever  hear  the  like  ?  How  that  thunder  increases.  It 
does  seem  to  me  lately  that  the  showers  don't  take  no  time  to 
get  fixed ;  I  was  out  in  three  of  'em  yesterday,  as  fast  as  one 
was  over  the  other  was  making  ready." 

"  Has  he  not  reached  them  ?  Is  he  not  opposite  to  them, 
now,  sir  ?" 

"  He  is  about  opposite  now,  I  should  think,  so  far  as  1  can 
see,  madam — yes,  there  he  goes,  he's  in — oh  dear,  it's  life  or 
death  now  for  him.  They  are  all  children  together,  and  if  he 
should  give  out !" 

It  was  indeed  a  moment  of  intense  interest.  They  had  seen 
his  plunge  into  the  water,  but  the  distance  and  the  interven 
ing  marsh  prevented  the  sight  of  any  other  object  besides  the 
boat  and  the  children  in  it,  moving  steadily  on,  and  almost  at 
the  very  entrance  to  the  inlet.  The  clouds,  too,  were  rapidly 
rising,  the  sun  was  hidden  by  the  dense  mass,  the  waters 
looked  dark  and  forbidding,  and  the  whole  scenery  around, 
lately  so  picturesque,  in  which  the  water  and  the  land  formed 
such  a  beautiful  combination,  was  now  stripped  of  its  charms 
as  though  the  pall  of  death  had  suddenly  been  let  down  upon  it. 
When  Henry,  for  that  was  his  name,  and  we  may  as  well 
call  him  by  it,  had  reached  a  point  in  the  marsh  opposite  the 
boat,  he  called  out : 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  I  will  soon  be  with  you." 

He  saw  that  one  of  them  was  in  tears,  and  appeared  to  be 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA. 

much  excited  ;  the  other,  who  seemed  quite  self-possessed,  in 
quired  : 

"  How  can  you  get  to  us  ?" 

The  answer  he  returned  was  a  plunge  into  the  water,  and 
then  doing  his  best  to  urge  his  way  towards  them.  They  at 
once  expressed  great  delight,  but  their  joy  was  of  short  dura 
tion.  The  youth,  in  his  ardor  to  get  to  them,  had  not  made 
any  calculation  for  the  tide,  and  although  he  was  approaching 
the  boat,  that  was  also  going  from  him.  Nor  did  he  realize 
how  far  the  boat  was  from  the  shore ;  he  did  not  stop  to  think 
whether  he  had  ever  swam  so  far  before,  nor  whether  the 
labor  he  had  just  gone  through  might  not  have  exhausted  his 
strength,  and  without  calculating  his  chance  for  life,  off  he 
went  into  the  deep  water. 

The  girls  noticed  that  he  was  getting  tired ;  he  had,  indeed, 
approached  comparatively  near  to  them,  but  he  was  obliged 
to  suspend  his  efforts ;  a  few  moments  he  lay  merely  sustain 
ing  his  head  above  the  water ;  again  the  distance  between  them 
is  increasing.  One  of  them  called  out : 

"  Oh,  do  go  back — go  back !  you  cannot  reach  us." 

But  he  knew  there  was  no  return  for  him,  he  was  too  far 
from  shore ;  he  must  reach  the  boat  or  perish.  Again  his 
arms  are  extended,  he  is  battling  it  lustily,  he  is  making  a 
desperate  effort,  he  blows  the  water  from  his  mouth  and 
calls  out : 

"  An  oar,  an  oar,  quick !" 

The  oar  was  at  once  over  the  side. 

"Shall  I  throw  it  to  you?" 

"  Hold  on — hold  on  to  the  end  of  it." 

He  has  almost  reached  it ;  again  he  seems  to  be  giving 
out ;  as  if  by  instinct,  she  who  held  the  oar  said  to  him — 

"  You  have  almost  reached  it !  Oh,  try  once  more — do 
try !" 

The  encouraging  voice  aroused  him ;  a  few  desperate 
strokes,  and  he  grasped  the  blade. 

"  Emma,  Emma,  come  help !  Oh,  do,  quick ;  I  cannot, 
hold  it!" 

"  Hold  on  a  moment — let  me  rest.  Don't  let  go,  or  I  must 
sink."  In  a  few  moments  more  he  said,  "  Draw  it  in." 

And  using  their  main  strength,  they  have  drawn  him  within 
an  arm's  length  !  The  girl  who  had  been  the  most  active 
1* 


10  TKUE  TO   THE  LAST;   OK, 

DOW  reached  out  her  hand,  she  lying  down  well  within  the 
boat;  he  grasped  it,  and  with  that  gentle  aid  is  enabled  to 
seize  hold  of  the  side,  and  in  a  moment  more  is  lying  in  the 
boat !  He  is  saved,  but  for  the  time  almost  powerless ! 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed  :  I  shall  soon  be  better.  Take  care 
of  the  oar." 

"  Oh,  what  can  we  do  for  you  ?  You  have  injured  yourself 
in  trying  to  save  us !" 

He  looked  at  the  beautiful  girl,  whose  interest  for  him  was 
manifest  in  her  earnest  expression  as  she  leaned  over  him. 

"  Only  tired !" 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  was  able  to  sit  up ;  he 
saw  that  the  wind  was  coming,  and,  weak  as  he  was,  took  the 
oar,  and  fitting  it  to  the  stern,  soon  sculled  to  the  shore,  and 
running  the  prow  well  into  the  mud,  stuck  the  oar  down  at 
the  side  of  the  boat,  and  thus  made  her  fast.  The  storm, 
which  had  been  so  threatening,  however,  passed  off  to  the 
north.  There  was  a  little  brush  of  wind,  a  few  drops  of  rain, 
and  all  was  calm  again,  and  the  sun  came  out  to  shed  his 
cheer  over  the  waters. 

"  Have  you  but  one  oar  ?" 

"Only  one!  The  other  is  in  the  mud,  near  where  we 
started  from." 

"  It  will  be  hard  sculling  against  the  tide ;  but  I  must  try  it." 

It  proved,  as  he  said,  "  hard  sculling  against  the  tide ;"  but 
the  tedium  of  the  way  was  beguiled  by  the  pleasant  chit-chat  of 
his  companions.  Young  persons,  under  such  circumstances,  re 
quire  no  formal  introduction.  They  soon  learned  each  other's 
names,  and  after  the  girls  had  said  all  they  could  to  assure 
him  how  grateful  they  felt  for  the  efforts  he  had  made  for 
their  rescue,  they  turned  to  other  topics,  and  soon  learned 
that  his  name  was  Henry  Thornton ;  that  he  was  at  Maplo 
Cove  on  a  visit  to  Mr.  Malcolm,  the  miller;  that  he  lived  at 
Stratton,  about  ten  miles  from  Maple  Cove,  and  that  his 
mother  had  married  a  Mr.  Langstaff,  whom  the  girls  knew 
very  well  :  that  is,  they  knew  there  was  such  a  man,  and 
they  knew  where  his  house  stood ;  and  then  they  wondered, 
or  at  least  one  of  them  said  she  wondered,  how  it  was  they 
had  never  seen  him  before ;  but  the  other,  and  she  was  the 
one  who  had  held  out  the  oar  for  him,  and  had  manifested 
such  an  interest  for  him,  said — 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  ] 

"I  think,  cousin  Emma,  we  have  seen  him  before.  Do  you 
not  remember  the  time  we  were  so  frightened  by  a  dog,  when 
we  were  strawberrying  this  summer  ?" 

And  Miss  Emma  looked  at  him  again,  and  Henry  smiled, 
and  said — 

"  I  remembered  your  faces  as  soon  as  I  saw  you,  when  I 
was  on  the  marsh,  but  I  did  not  know  your  names !" 

And  then,  as  was  very  natural,  they  told  him  their  names, 
and  who  they  were  :  that  Emma  was  the  daughter  of  Esquire 
Thompson ;  that  they  lived  at  Stratton  too ;  and  that  Louise 
was  her  cousin ;  that  her  name  was  Louise  Lovelace  ;  and 
that  they  had  come  with  her  mother  and  father  to  Maple 
Cove ;  that  her  father  was  a  lawyer,  and  was  attending  court 
at  Maple  Cove,  and  that  her  mother  had  brought  them  down 
to  the  mill  for  a  walk.  All  this  was  said  by  Miss  Emma, 
who  was  the  chief  speaker,  and  then  she  inquired — 

'  Do  you  know  where  our  place  is  at  Stratton  ?" 

'  I  have  seen  it.     It  is  a  very  beautiful  place !" 

'Are  you  fond  of  fishing?" 

'Oh,  yes,  that  I  am." 

'We  have  a  beautiful  fishpond.  Will  you  not  come  to 
see  us,  and  we  will  take  you  there  ?  The  sunfish  are  as  thick 
as  anything!'' 

"  I  should  be  very  happy  to  do  so.  It  is  not  often,  however, 
that  I  can  be  spared ;  I  am  in  the  field  most  of  the  time,  but 
I  will  try  to  come." 

And  thus  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the  place  from 
where  the  boat  had  started,  no  one  could  have  told  that  any 
thing  serious  had  occurred,  or  that  any  of  them  had  been  so 
lately  in  real  danger,  or  that  they  had  not  known  each  other 
always;  except  that  the  young  gentleman  treated  the  young 
ladies  with  great  deference,  and  although  they  called  him 
Henry,  or  at  least  Miss  Emma  did,  he  was  very  careful  to  say 
Miss  Louise,  or  Miss  Emma,  when  speaking  to  them. 

The  moment  the  boat  was  again  at  the  shore,  Mrs.  Thomp 
son,  for  we  may  as  well  call  her  by  name  now,  first  embraced 
her  girls,  and  perhaps  shed  a  few  tears  of  joy,  and  then  ap 
proached  the  young  gentleman,  and  taking  his  hand — 

"  I  know  not  what  to  say  to  you,  my  dear  boy;  nor  how 
to  express  my  obligations  to  you  for  your  manly,  resolute 
conduct !  What  should  we  have  done,  but  for  you  ?"  And 


13  TETJE  TO  THE  LAST;   OB, 

Mrs.  Thompson  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  as  though  feel- 
iug  for  her  purse;  but  Louise  touched  her  arm;  she  saw  that 
Henry  had  anticipated  her  aunt's  design,  for  not  all  the  exer 
tions  "he  had  made  had  brought  such  a  deep  color  to  his 
cheeks ;  and  Louise  whispered  a  few  sentences  to  her. 

"Indeed!  Well,  Master  Henry,  I  hear  that  this  is  not 
the  first  time  that  you  have  interfered  for  the  rescue  of  these 
young  ladies !  Both  they  and  myself  feel  under  very,  very 
great  obligations,  and  I  must  request,  as  a  particular  favor  to 
me,  that  you  will  come  and  see  me  when  you  return  to  Strat- 
ton.  Will  you  promise  me?" 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,  madam,  to  do  so." 

"And  I  shall  certainly  take  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  your 
mother,  for  the  purpose  of  congratulating  her  that  she  has 
such  a  noble  son." 

Master  Henry  felt  very  much  abashed  by  hearing  such 
compliments  paid  to  him,  while  two  pairs  of  the  prettiest 
eyes  he  had  ever  seen  were  looking  intently  at  him.  He  had 
managed,  while  the  lady  was  busy  caressing  the  girls  on  their 
jumping  ashore,  to  slip  on  so  much  of  his  wardrobe  as  he 
had  thrown  off  when  starting  on  his  expedition,  and,  with  the 
exception  of  a  collar  rather  limpsy,  and  some  spots  on  his 
trousers,  he  was  quite  respectably  arrayed.  His  hair,  of  a 
dark  brown  color,  looked  none  the  worse  for  being  in  a 
dishevelled  condition,  as  it  had  a  tendency  to  curl  when  left 
to  itself;  his  forehead  was  fair  and  open;  his  features  well 
formed;  his  complexion  light,  easily  affected  by  the  sun,  and 
there  were,  no  doubt,  some  freckles  on  his  cheeks,  but  not 
enough  to  attract  notice.  Perhaps  the  most  expressive  fea 
ture  was  a  peculiarly  bright,  soft  eye,  of  a  rich  hazel  color, 
shaded  by  long  dark  brown  lashes.  He  was  sixteen,  and  of 
fair  size  for  that  age ;  his  form  well  proportioned,  and  he  held 
himself  erect,  and  was  quick  in  all  his  motions.  Altogether,  he 
was  not  an  unpleasant  object  for  the  gaze  of  young  ladies, 
especially  under  the  circumstances  in  which  he  and  they  were 
placed. 

Mr.  Malcolm  had  been  quite  silent  during  the  time  that 
Mrs.  Thompson  was  expressing  her  kind  feelings.  The  old 
gentleman  had  been  in  a  state  of  great  excitement  during  the 
whole  scene,  until  he  could  clearly  perceive  his  little  craft,  with 
its  precious  freight,  coming  slowly  back ;  and  when  he  found 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  13 

all  was  doing  well,  and  the  danger  past,  he  very  naturally 
began  talking  of  the  boy,  and  telling  some  things  about  him 
and  his  mother  which  no  doubt  tended  to  increase  an  interest 
for  him  in  the  mind  of  the  lady.  So  that  he  was  very  wil 
ling  to  be  a  silent  spectator,  enjoying,  no  doubt,  much  satis 
faction  in  the  thought  that  Henry  would  now  have  a  chance 
to  be  acquainted  with  some  of  the  "  great  folks  "  at  Stratton, 
for  he  knew  Esquire  Thompson  by  repute,  although  not  per 
sonally  intimate  with  that  gentleman. 

"And  now,  madam,  will  you  and  your  daughters  just  walk 
up  the  hill  and  stop  a  few  minutes  in  our  old  house,  and  my 
woman  will  give  you  a  good  drink  of  milk,  or  small  beer,  or 
cold  water,  whichever  you  like  best.  That  shower  we  feared 
so  much  has  gone  round ;  but  there  is  another  coming  right 
after  it,  and  it  is  'most  fixed  already." 

The  lady  saw  that  rain  was  evidently  near  at  hand,  and 
perhaps  willing  to  gratify  one  who  had  been  so  very  kind, 
made  no  objections.  At  once  the  little  party  was  on  its  way 
up  the  rising  ground  of  which  we  have  spoken.  Henry  ac 
companied  the  young  ladies,  who  walked  on  at  some  distance 
ahead,  and  kept  up  a  lively  conversation  about  the  different 
events  in  the  scene  they  had  just  passed  through. 

Mr.  Malcolm  had  some  things  to  say  likewise  to  the  lady 
by  whose  side  he  was  walking. 

"  It  made  me  very  happy,  madam,  to  hear  you  invite  that 
boy  so  cordially  to  your  house.  You  see,  from  what  I  hear, 
but  not  from  Henry,  he  is  very  loth  to  say  anything  that 
might  throw  blame  on  his  mother,  but  folks  from  Stratton 
have  told  me  how  it  is.  You  see  she  has  done  a  very  foolish 
thing — asking  pardon,  madam — but  I  call  it  a  foolish  thing, 
she  was  well  to  do,  in  a  plain  way,  and  she  had  only  this 
child ;  but  Mr.  Langstaff  heard  about  her,  and  he  came  to 
see  her,  and  put  on  his  best  no  doubt,  and  got  round  her 
some  how,  and  the  poor  thing  goes  and  marries  him,  and 
sells  her  nice  place,  or  he  did  after  they  were  married.  Well, 
they  say  he  is  a  grinding  sort  of  a  man — rough  in  his  ways, 
too — and  don't  have  the  right  feeling  that  a  man  ought  to 
have  for  a  wife — don't  treat  her  ill  may  be,  but  according  to 
my  notion,  don't  treat  her  as  a  woman  who  has  been  used  to 
kind  treatment  ought  to  be  treated  ;  and  I  guess,  too,  he  feels 
a  little  jealous  of  the  boy,  and  tries  to  make  him  rough  like 


14  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

his  own  sons — don't  like  to  see  him  dressed  up — and  don't 
like  his  gentlemanly  ways — and  don't  like  his  playing  music, 
and  all  that ;  you  see  the  boy  has  a  natural  turn  for  it.  He 
works — works  hard,  folks  tell  me  !  He  always  does  his  stint 
with  the  best  of  them,  but  he  has  got  the  gentleman  in  him, 
any  one  can  see  that,  and  I  guess  it  won't  get  out  of  him, 
work  as  hard  as  he  may,  or  dress  him  as  they  please — in  tow 
cloth,  or  what  not — and  seeing  things  are  so,  it  will  be  a  great 
thing  for  him  to  mingle  a  little,  once  in  a  while,  with  folks 
that  don't  have  but  one  dish  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and  all 
help  themselves  higgledy  piggledy — manners  are  as  good  for 
poor  folks  as  well  as  for  rich  folks,  as  I  take  it,  madam." 

Mr.  Malcolm,  as  we  have  said  at  our  first  introduction  of 
him  to  the  reader,  was  a  fleshy  man,  but  as  we  are  about  to 
describe  the  mill,  it  may  be  as  well  to  give  a  few  more  parti 
culars  of  the  gentleman  himself,  as  he  and  his  mill  were  part 
and  parcel  of  each  other.  He  was  indeed  a  fine  sample  of 
one  who  makes  his  living  by  grinding  grists.  He  was  a  portly 
man  even  when  in  middle  life,  but  as  years  rolled  along,  he 
gradually  increased  in  flesh,  his  face  grew  rounder,  and  his 
eyes  grew  smaller,  or  so  they  appeared  to  do,  until  they 
looked  like  two  little  twinkling  stars  set  in  carbuncle,  his  face 
was  so  ruddy,  and  when  not  obscured  by  meal,  shone  like 
that  glittering  stone. 

Mr.  Malcolm  was  one  upon  whom  care  sat  lightly  ;  and  in 
whose  heart  no  bad  passions  had  much  place.  He  had  pur 
sued  an  honest  calling  in  an  honest  way,  kept  clear  of  debt, 
at  least  he  had  done  so  for  many  years,  and  never  allowed 
himself  to  be  troubled  with  "  new-fangled  notions"  about  im 
proved  machinery,  or  any  short  cuts  to  wealth.  The  old  mill 
had  stood  beside  the  old  dam,  nobody  then  living  could  tell  how 
long.  It  had  been  propped  and  patched,  and  kept  along  just 
about  so.  The  old  wheel,  a  broad,  low  concern,  with  its  outer 
rim  just  rising  above  the  head  of  water  that  was  pouring  upon 
it,  was  well  covered  over  with  green  moss  or  slime,  and  kept 
turning,  on  the  same  steady  jog  it  had  started  upon,  perhaps 
a  century  ago.  The  little  old  house,  too,  squatted  close  by 
the  mill,  had  a  venerable  look,  for  the  roof  was  covered  with 
moss,  and  the  shingles  which  formed  the  outer  covering  of 
the  house  were  quite  grey  with  age,  and  some  of  them  much 
warped  by  the  sunshine  and  the  storms.  It  was,  however,  a 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  15 

tight  building  still,  and  as  it  had  served  Mr.  Malcolm's 
father  and  grandfather,  he  had  no  idea  but  it  would  serve 
him  too. 

The  whole  concern  was  situated,  as  has  been  said,  very  near 
the  waters  of  the  Sound,  which  found  their  way  by  a  small 
creek,  through  an  extended  marsh,  and  afforded  an  outlet  for 
the  little  stream  upon  which  the  dam  and  mill  were  erected. 

A  prettier  or  more  convenient  place  for  a  mill,  at  least  for 
a  small  one,  can  scarcely  be  conceived.  A  slight  gorge  in 
the  hills,  which  abound  in  that  vicinity,  afforded  an  opening 
for  a  small  stream,  which  came  stealing  along  in  silence 
through  its  pebbly  bed,  among  alders  and  yellow  willows,  un 
til  meeting  the  dam,  which  extended  across  from  hill  to  hill,  it 
spread  out  into  a  pretty  pond.  It  was  an  unfailing  stream,  and 
although  the  fall  of  water  was  but  a  few  feet,  there  was  always 
power  enough  to  keep  the  broad  wheel  going,  with  its  two 
runs  of  stones.  The  view  from  the  mill  and  dwelling  was 
quite  extensive,  at  least  in  one  direction,  for  there  was  nothing 
to  obstruct  a  free  sight  of  the  waters  of  the  Sound,  the  head 
lands  on  either  side  of  the  cove  or  inlet,  and  the  distant 
shores  of  Long  Island.  There  were  no  dwellings  in  the  im 
mediate  vicinity  that  could  be  seen,  for  the  slight  hills  which 
rose  behind,  hid  them  from  view.  The  town  of  Maple  Cove 
itself  was  about  a  mile  distant.  When  Mr.  Malcolm  and  the 
lady  reached  the  house,  Henry  had  already  introduced  the  girls, 
and  Mrs.  Malcolm  herself  was  at  the  door,  with  a  smile  on  her 
pleasant  face,  ready  to  welcome  her  new  guest,  and  although 
the  inside  of  the  house  was  not  quite  so  plain  as  the  outside, 
yet  the  whole  affair  was  of  the  humblest  order.  But  there 
was  no  lack  of  good  things  at  once  brought  out  from  a  clean 
and  very  tempting  buttery — such  pie,  and  cake,  and  bread,  and 
butter,  and  beer,  and  milk,  and  cool  water,  the  girls  said  they 
had  never  tasted  before.  Perhaps  the  circumstances  added 
somewhat  to  the  relish,  although  it  must  be  confessed,  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  hostess,  as  well  as  that  of  her  husband,  told 
very  plainly,  that  good  fare  must  have  been  generally  some 
where  within  their  reach. 

The  shower  passed  over,  long  before  the  young  folks  had 
done  with  the  good  things,  for  the  hearts  of  those  who  had 
so  bountifully  spread  them  out,  seemed  to  take  great  delight 
in  witnessing  the  zest  which  was  manifested  in  their  recep- 


16  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

tion.  Everything  had  a  better  taste,  no  doubt,  from  the 
very  kind  and  hospitable  manner  in  which  piece  after  piece 
was  forced  upon  their  plates.  Their  protestations  were  taken 
for  naught. 

"  It  always  seems  to  me,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  that  pie  and 
cake  must  be  good  for  children,  they  take  to  them  so  natu 
rally  ?" 

Henry  accompanied  the  ladies  far  enough  to  show  them 
the  most  desirable  road  to  the  town,  and  he  would  no  doubt 
willingly  have  piloted  them  the  whole  distance ;  his  modesty, 
however,  prompted  him  not  to  venture  upon  such  an  experi 
ment,  and  satisfied  with  his  afternoon's  experience,  he  took  a 
pleasant  leave,  and  returned  to  the  mill. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MR.  LANGSTAFF  was  one  of  your  hard-working  farmers,  and 
estimated  all  men — and  perhaps  all  women,  too — according 
to  their  ability  or  turn  for  manual  labor.  He  laid  great 
stress  upon  i(,  and  had  but  a  poor  opinion  of  what  he  called 
"  head-work,"  either  in  the  house  or  in  the  field.  By  dint  of 
hard  work  and  close  living,  he  had  become  possessed  of  con 
siderable  land,  that  being  to  him  the  summum  bonum  of 
prosperity.  It  was  not,  indeed,  all  very  good  land,  but  the 
number  of  acres  was  large,  and  there  was  plenty  of  work  to 
be  done  upon  it. 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  called  by  many  a  good,  substantial  man. 
That  is,  he  did  not  spend  his  time  idly ;  he  frequented  no 
taverns ;  he  encouraged  no  useless  expense  for  his  person  or 
his  family. 

A  farmer's  life,  according  to  his  opinion,  was  of  necessity 
one  that  did  not  admit  of  improvement.  Old-fashioned  ways, 
both  as  regards  the  economy  of  the  family  and  the  field,  were 
to  him  the  "  better  ways."  To  have  enough  to  eat  and  to 
wear,  and  to  make  the  two  ends  of  the  year  meet,  was  all  he 
thought  necessary.  The  little  refinements  of  life  be  had  no 
taste  for ;  "  homespun  was  good  enough  for  him,"  and  rag 
carpet  she  fancied  "  before  any  of  the  new-fangled  boughten 
things."  "  His  father,  and  his  grandfather,  had  lived  on  rye 
and  potatoes  and  pork,  and  he  had  been  brought  up  on  them, 
and  his  boys  could  do  the  same."  "  To  read  and  write  and 
cypher  was  all  the  learning  he  ever  got,  and  it  was  all  a  man 
wanted,  without  he  was  going  to  be  a  clergyman,  or  such 
like." 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  also  said  to  be  a  pious  man.  He  was, 
indeed,  a  member  of  the  Church,  and  very  regular  in  his 
attendance  on  the  Sabbath ;  and  to  see  him  as  he  entered 

17 


18  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OB, 

the  House  of  God  and  walked  up  the  aisle  to  his  seat  among 
the  foremost  pews — his  hair  smooth  and  shiny,  and  his 
countenance  so  demure — it  was  enough  to  make  an  impres 
sion,  especially  on  those  who  lay  much  stress  on  such  mat 
ters. 

It  is  not  for  us  to  say  how  little  religion  a  man  may  have, 
and  yet  be  safe.  Mr.  Langstaff  may  have  been  what  he  pro 
fessed  to  be.  But  we  fear  his  religion  consisted  more  in  the 
smooth  hair,  the  demure  countenance,  the  steady  behavior, 
and  the  solemn  tone  of  voice,  at  set  times,  than  in  contrition 
of  heart,  unselfish  love,  and  humble  faith. 

Mr.  Langstaff  had  married  early  in  life,  and  as  his  com 
panion  was,  no  doubt,  of  his  way  of  thinking,  their  house 
hold  presented,  after  some  years  had  passed,  a  very  rough 
appearance.  Three  boys  had  been  given  to  them,  and  they 
were  all  that  such  parents  could  have  wished  !  They  worked, 
because  they  were  compelled  to.  They  were  rough  in  their 
speech  and  manners,  because  they  had  been  taught  in  that 
way.  They  learned  as  little  as  possible  the  few  months  of  the 
year  they  were  allowed  to  go  to  school,  because  they  heard 
their  parents  speak  disparagingly  of  "  book  learning."  And 
they  were  not  very  respectful  to  their  teachers,  for  the  reason 
that  they  were  never  treated  at  home  with  kindness  and 
respect,  and  had  learned  on  all  occasions  to  "give  as  good  as 
they  got."  In  process  of  time,  Mrs.  Langstaff  broke  down 
under  her  drudgery,  and  her  unvaried,  monotonous,  cart 
horse  life  came  to  an  end. 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  a  widower,  and  in  a  few  months  on  the 
look-out  for  somebody!  Hired  help  was  expensive,  and 
generally  wasteful.  A  wife  would  cost  nothing  after  the 
wedding  fee  was  paid,  except  for  clothing.  And  linsey-wool 
sey  was  not  dear ! 

How  he  got  acquainted  with  the  Widow  Thornton  is  not 
material.  Nor  how  it  happened  that  Mr.  Langstaff  made 
himself  so  agreeable  to  her  as  to  win  her  consent,  we  cannot 
pretend  to  say.  Somehow  it  was  managed,  and  very  much 
to  the  astonishment  of  all  who  knew  the  parties.  Mr.  Thorn 
ton  had  been  a  tender  husband,  and  was  a  man  of  consider 
able  refinement.  The  widow  had  been  left  with  one  child,  a 
son.  She  had  a  snug  homestead  and  a  small  income,  and  was 
under  no  necessity  to  marry  for  a  support.  She  was  not 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  19 

ignorant,  either,  of  some  peculiarities  in  Mr.  Langstaff  which 
have  been  mentioned.  No  doubt  she  believed,  as  many  women 
do, "  that  she  could  make  him  over."  She  meant  to  take  her 
own  furniture,  and  fix  up  the  house  when  it  should  become 
her  home,  and  make  him  social  by  frequent  visits  abroad,  and 
having  neighbors  and  friends  visit  them. 

And  when  Mrs.  Thornton  became  Mrs.  Langstaff,  there  was, 
indeed,  for  some  few  weeks,  a  lighting  up  of  the  drear  house. 
The  change,  however,  was  only  a  spasmodic  effort  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Langstaff.  He  soon  relapsed  into  his  old  habits;  kept 
on  his  working  frock  at  the  table;  persisted  in  sitting  in  the 
kitchen,  company  or  no  company !  Slept  most  of  the  even 
ing,  and  gave  such  broad  hints  about  wasting  money  and 
time  with  visitors,  that  Mrs.  Langstaff  soon  lost  what  ambi 
tion  she  had  brought  with  her,  and  being  compelled  to  labor 
almost  constantly,  would  no  doubt  have  become  as  indifferent 
as  her  husband  to  all  but  the  bare  necessities  of  life,  had  it 
not  been  for  a  counteracting  influence  which  a  mother's  heart 
could  not  well  resist. 

Henry,  the  little  son  of  Mrs.  Thornton,  was  ten  years  old 
at  his  father's  death ;  and  not  being  favorably  located  for  the 
enjoyment  of  suitable  schools,  he  had  been  taught  by  his 
father,  and  subsequently  by  his  mother.  So  that,  at  fourteen, 
he  was  more  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  elementary 
branches  of  an  English  education  than  most  boys  of  his  age 
in  that  vicinity. 

It  was,  no  doubt,  a  misfortune  to  be  educated  alone ; 
being  naturally  retiring,  he  needed  the  company  of  boys  of 
his  own  age,  rather  than  such  companions  as  he  found  in  his 
father's  library.  What  were  his  mother's  views  respecting  a 
life-business  for  him,  cannot  now  be  known.  Perhaps  she 
thought  little  about  it!  He  was  her  pet,  the  joy  of  her  life. 
Her  small  income  was  sufficient  for  their  present  necessities, 
by  living  in  a  frugal  way.  The  child,  therefore,  grew  to  be  a 
still,  thoughtful" boy,  and  at  fourteen  had  read  more  books 
than  most  young  men  of  twenty-one.  He  was  not  disposed 
to  be  idle ;  whatever  he  saw  necessary  to  be  done,  he  did 
promptly  and  with  apparent  pleasure.  And  when  no  work 
seemed  to  demand  his  care,  a  book,  or  instrument  of  music, 
was  at  once  his  resort.  For  the  latter  he  had  a  peculiar 
talent,  which  manifested  itself  at  an  early  period :  an  old 


20  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OR, 

piano,  which  had  been  used  by  Mrs.  Thornton  when  a  girl, 
but  which  she  never,  or  very  seldom,  sat  down  to  after  her 
marriage,  was  made  by  little  Henry  "to  discourse  sweet 
music,''  at  least  to  the  ears  of  parents. 

The  library  to  which  Henry  had  access  contained  but  few 
books.  Some  volumes  of  history  and  biography,  a  volume 
of  natural  history,  one  or  two  of  the  old  poets,  a  copy  of 
Shakspeare,  Pilgrim's  Progress,  Robinson  Crusoe,  and  a  few 
magazines.  Like  most  boys,  could  he  have  had  his  choice, 
he  would  have  devoured  any  quantity  of  the  story  kind ;  but 
not  having  that  privilege,  after  going  over  again  and  again 
the  few  he  possessed,  he  was  driven,  by  a  kind  of  necessity, 
to  those  which  contained  more  useful  matter.  So  that 
although  the  knowledge  he  gathered  was  much  mixed  up 
arid  disconnected,  yet  what  he  learned  stimulated  his  search 
for  more;  and  at  least  he  acquired  a  habit  for  reading,  which 
prevented  much  that  might  have  been  evil,  if  it  did  not  fit 
him  for  the  business  of  life. 

Whatever  his  feelings  were  at  the  prospect  of  his  mother's 
marriage  with  one  who  had  been  a  perfect  stranger,  he  mani 
fested  no  repugnance  to  it.  Possibly  the  thought  that  he 
was  to  be  introduced  to  a  new  place  and  to  new  scenes  rather 
pleased  his  childish  fancy.  And  that  he  was  also  to  mingle 
with  boys  of  his  own  age,  who  would  stand  in  the  relation  of 
brothers  to  him,  might  have  had  its  charm  for  one  who  had 
hitherto  been  without  fraternal  experience. 

The  pleasure,  however,  from  the  new  arrangement  was 
doomed  to  be  of  short  duration.  The  aspect  of  the  country 
around  Stratton,  where  Mr.  Langstaff  lived,  was  strikingly  in 
contrast  with  that  of  Maple  Cove,  his  native  place.  Stratton 
was  an  inland  town,  or  that  portion  of  it  where  his  future  home 
was  to  be.  For  at  least  two  miles  in  every  direction,  it  ex 
hibited  a  plain,  uninteresting  surface ;  no  hills  of  any  magni 
tude,  and  only  a  few  rolling  eminences,  rather  forbidding  to 
the  view;  for  the  bare  rocks  had  but  a  light  .covering  at  their 
base  to  support  vegetation,  and  neither  cedars,  spruce,  nor 
pines  could  live  among  them.  A  mighty  change  indeed  from 
the  rich  and  varied  scenery  at  Maple  Cove,  where  a  vast  ex 
panse  of  the  blue  water  spread  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
Fine  headlands,  and  lofty  hills,  where  mighty  rocks  peeped 
out  through  the  rich  turf;  and  dells  too,  in  which  towered  the 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  21 

noble  oak  and  maple ;  while  beneath  their  spreading  branches 
sparkling  streams  came  stealing  down  from  the  far  off 
mountains. 

It  was  a  great  change  to  Henry,  and  his  young  heart  felt  it 
sadly.  But  a  much  more  serious  disappointment  awaited  him 
in  the  social  scenery  to  which  he  was  introduced.  For  the 
first  few  weeks  everything  was  done  to  make  the  new  home 
agreeable.  The  horses  were  at  the  command  of  the  boys 
when  the  parents  did  not  need  them,  to  take  their  new 
brother  round  and  show  him  the  place,  and  to  call  on  the  few 
families  with  whom  they  associated ;  and  company  was  in 
vited  to  their  house,  and  Henry  was  asked  to  play  on  the 
instrument  which  his  mother  had  brought  with  her.  At  first 
they  seemed  to  take  much  pride  in  showing  him  off,  and  were 
apparently  pleased  when  their  visitors  expressed  astonishment 
at  his  performance.  But  it  soon  became  an  old  story,  and 
what  was  at  first,  from  its  novelty,  a  matter  of  pride,  became 
by  degrees  a  cause  of  jealousy,  and  at  length  of  absolute 
dislike. 

Henry's  mother  soon  found  that  both  she  and  her  son  had 
gotten  into  the  wrong  place,  but  she  kept  the  sad  secret  in 
her  own  heart.  Day  by  day  she  toiled  on.  The  family  was 
large  during  the  more  busy  seasons  of  the  year,  when  several 
hired  men  were  always  added  to  their  number.  Female  help 
was  hard  to  get,  at  least  for  the  wages  Mr.  Langstaff  was 
willing  to  pay,  and  the  whole  burden  of  the  household  came 
upon  her.  She  had  never  been  accustomed  to  it,  but,  woman 
like,  toiled  on,  trying  to  keep  up  a  cheerful  countenance  for 
the  sake  of  Henry,  and  to  make  his  home  as  agreeable  as  she 
could.  But  her  frame  was  delicate,  and  after  two  years, 
weaknesses  often  confined  her  to  her  bed.  Against  these  she 
struggled  on,  at  times  laboring  to  do  what  was  absolutely 
necessary,  when  scarcely  able  to  go  from  room  to  room, 
until  at  length  nature  gave  way,  and  her  emaciated  frame 
was  confined  to  the  bed  from  which  she  was  to  be  carried  to 
her  grave. 

It  was  just  after  the  noon  meal,  on  a  warm  day  in  the  early 
part  of  summer,  about  one  year  from  the  time  when  our  story 
opens,  that  Mr.  Langstaff  walked  up  into  the  room  where  his 
sick  wife  lay,  not  to  see  how  she  was,  or  what  she  needed, 
but  to  vent  some  of  his  feelings  respecting  Henry. 


22  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

M  What  has  he  been  doing,  Mr.  Langstaff  ?  I  hope  he  does 
not  mean  to  trouble  you." 

"It's  the  same  old  story  ihat  I  have  told  you  again  and 
again ;  the  boy  is  good  for  nothing,  and  he  never  will  be  good 
for  nothing,  if  he  is  let  to  go  on." 

"  Perhaps,  husband — perhaps  he  may  take  a  turn,  one  of 
these  days ;  he  does  not  seem  to  be  getting  any  bad  ways, 
does  he  ?" 

"  Bad  ways  !  Why  as  to  that,  it  don't  signify ;  maybe  if 
he  was  downright  bad,  something  might  be  made  out  of  him  ; 
but  what  is  he  a-going  to  be  good  for  ?" 

"  Why  he  works,  does  he  not,  husband  ?  I  know  he  never 
was  very  strong,  but  he  always  seems  to  me  to  be  willing  to 
do  anything  he  is  told  to  do ;  at  least  it  was  so  when  I  was 
about ;  my  sickness,  maybe,  has  made  a  difference.  Poor 
child  !  he  will  soon  be  fatherless  and  motherless." 

And  the  feeble  woman  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  laid  her 
white  handkerchief  for  a  moment  over  her  pale,  emaciated 
countenance.  Mr.  Langstaff,  no  doubt,  observed  that  his  wife 
was  much  troubled,  but  his  eye  was  turned  to  some  object  ia 
another  part  of  the  room.  He  did  not  look  like  one  who 
could  sympathize  with  weakness  and  suffering ;  he  cer 
tainly  made  no  attempt  to  do  so ;  perhaps  his  own  sturdy 
frame,  which  seemed  to  bid  defiance  to  the  power  of  disease, 
wholly  unfitted  him  for  a  place  beside  a  sick  bed.  Silently 
he  sat  and  listened  to  her  short  breathing  until  at  length  the 
invalid  dropped  her  hand  upon  the  outer  covering  of  the  bed 
and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Langstaff;  as  it  has  turned  out,  our  union 
has  not  been  a  benefit  to  either  of  us.  I  have  suffered  much 
from  sickness  and  consequent  anxiety  on  your  account,  and  I 
know  you  cannot  have  had  much  comfort  with  a  wife  so 
feeble.  And  I  have  been  troubled  about  Henry ;  he  does 
not  seem,  for  some  reason,  to  please  you  or  any  of  the  family, 
and  yet  from  all  that  I  can  see  he  is  not  willful  nor  mischiev 
ous,  and  seems  ready  to  work,  and  yet  he  does  not  appear 
to  be  in  the  right  place." 

"  That  is  it,  Mrs.  Langstaff."  And  Mr.  Langstaff  straight 
ened  himself  in  his  chair,  and  was  evidently  much  excited. 
"  That's  it,  he  aint  in  his  right  place ;  no,  no ;  we  aint  good 
enough  for  him  ;  he'd  do  much  better  to  live  in  a  fine  house, 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  23 

with  plenty  of  servants  to  wait  upon  him,  and  music  and 
dancing  and  all  that ;  plain  farmer's  folks  ain't  good  enough 
for  him." 

"  Don't — don't,  dear  husband ;  don't  talk  so,  you  do  not 
understand  Henry." 

"I  understand  well  enough — I  understand.  Esquire 
Thompson's  is  the  only  place  good  enough  for  him.  Yes  " 

The  gentleman  stopped  suddenly,  for  a  step  was  heard, 
and  a  hand  was  on  the  latch.  The  door  gently  opened,  and 
with  a  noiseless  step  Henry  entered.  A  moment  he  paused 
and  held  the  door  in  his  hand,  as  if  doubtful  whether  to  pro 
ceed  further.  Mr.  Langstaff,  however,  at  once  arose  and 
walked  heavily  from  the  room.  And  Henry  came  up  to  the 
bed  and  took  the  seat  which  had  been  just  vacated. 

"  You  seem  to  be  much  exhausted,  dear  mother." 

"  I  am  very  weak,  Henry  ;  my  mortal  struggles  will  soon 
be  over,  and  but  for  you,  I  have  no  desire  to  live." 

"  Any  new  trouble,  mother?  am  I  the  cause  of  it  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  child ;  you  are  not  the  cause,  but " 

"  But  what,  mother  !" 

"  Oh  well,  it  is  the  old  story ;  I  fear  you  will  never  be  able 
to  please  your  father.  I  fear  sometimes  that  some  evil- 
minded  person  keeps  exciting  him  against  you.  He  has  the 
idea  that  you  feel  above  work,  and  too  good  to  associate  with 
his  sous,  yo.ir  brothers,  and  that  you  are  too  fond  of  visiting; 
maybe  it  has  not  been  so  well  that  the  squire's  family  have 
noticed  you  so  much,  and  perhaps  you  had  better  not  go 
there  only  once  in  a  great  while." 

Had  Mrs.  Langstatf  looked  at  her  son,  she  would  have 
seen  his  fine  face  suffused  with  a  burning  blush,  and  his 
bright  eye  bedimmed  with  a  tear.  But  the  blush  was  not 
caused  by  any  sense  of  wrong  committed  by  him.  Her 
words  had  gone  to  his  heart  and  awakened  feelings  which 
to  that  moment  he  had  been  able  to  suppress.  Words  were 
ready  to  break  forth  that  would  no  doubt  have  exposed  to 
his  mother  the  true  reason  for  all  this'anxiety  on  his  account. 
But  his  judgment  warned  him  that  such  exposure  would  only 
tend  to  alienate  her  mind  from  him  whom  she  had  placed  as 
a  father  over  her  only  child ;  and  such  a  result  would  embit 
ter  the  few  remaining  days  of  her  life.  "  No  !  he  would  do 
all  a  loving  son  could  to  soothe  her  feeble  spirit." 


24  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

"Perhaps,  mother, it  may  be  so;  perhaps  some  evil-minded 
person  is  endeavoring  to  misrepresent  me.  But  rest  assured 
I  shall  be  more  and  more  careful  to  please  my  father.  In 
time  he  will  be  convinced  that  I  am  faithful  to  do  all  my 
part  of  the  work.  And  as  to  visiting  at  Esquire  Thompson's, 
perhaps  I  may  have  gone  there  too  frequently ;  but  it  does 
not  seem  to  me  any  one  can  be  injured  by  it.  I  never  go  but 
of  an  evening,  or  once  or  twice  when  I  have  had  leave  of  an 
afternoon.  But  I  can  refrain  from  that  pleasure,  if  ray  going 
there  will  give  you,  dear  mother,  one  moment's  uneasiness  or 
trouble." 

Perhaps  Mrs.  Langstaff  was  satisfied  with  what  Henry  had 
said,  or  other  matters  of  some  importance  to  her  child  just 
then  obtruded  upon  her  thoughts.  She  changed  the  subject 
of  conversation. 

"  You  know,  Henry,  we  had  a  little  property  when  I  mar 
ried  Mr.  Langstaff." 

"  I  have  never  known  about  it,  mother  " 

"  Well,  I  have  been  wrong,  perhaps,  in  not  talking  with 
you  more  freely  on  that  subject.  You  see,  Henry,  I  have 
been — I  have  not  been  so  careful  as  I  might  have  been." 

"Perhaps  you  had  better  not  trouble  yourself  to  talk  about 
it  now,  mother.  You  are  very  much  exhausted.  I  fear  you 
have  been  too  much  excited  during  the  last  hour.  Try  to 
rest,  mother.  I  will  see  you  in  the  course  of  the  evening." 

As  if  conscious  that  Henry's  advice  was  good,  and  perhaps 
willing  just  then  to  be  relieved  from  unpleasant  explanations, 
she  pressed  his  hand,  which  she  had  been  holding,  and  turned 
herself  over  as  though  to  court  the  sleep  he  had  recommend 
ed.  Henry  stood  a  few  moments  in  silence  by  her  side,  and 
then  with  a  quick  step  left  the  room. 

The  last  words  he  was  ever  to  hear  from  her  who  had  been 
hitherto  all  of  life  to  him,  had  been  spoken.  In  one  short 
hour  from  the  time  he  left  the  room  he  was  called  by  one  of 
his  brothers  while  attending  to  his  appointed  work. 

"  Harry  !  Harry  !  do  you  hear  ?  They  say  your  mother's 
a-dying !" 

Henry  made  all  speed  to  the  sick  chamber,  and  reached  it 
just  in  time  to  hear  her  last  sigh !  With  intense  emotion  he 
gazed  upon  the  dear  emaciated  features ;  placed  his  hand 
upon  the  pale  forehead,  and  wiped  the  death-damp  away ; 


ALONE  ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  25 

touched  gently  the  eye-lids — they  readily  closed.  No  tear 
fell  from  his  eye,  no  word  escaped  his  lips.  There  were  sighs, 
as  there  always  are  at  such  scenes,  and  tears  too;  for  women 
were  there,  and  they  have  kind  hearts;  and  had  there  been 
no  others  present,  he  would  have  let  out  the  agony  of 
his.  But  not  then  !  not  there !  No,  he  would  die  tirst ! 
He  indulged  no  malice;  but  as  he  entered  the  room  his 
father-in-law  was  by  the  bedside,  and  Henry  had  heard  his 
piteous  exclamation  addressed  to  himself,  as  he  came  up  to 
look  on  the  beloved  form  : 

"Ah,  she  is  gone,  Henry!  It  is  her  gain,  I  trust;  she  is 
better  off,  no  doubt." 

And  his  young  heart  would  have  broken  before  he  would 
have  allowed  a  tear  to  tell  one  whom  he  knew  had  never 
done  a  single  act  to  relieve  her  weary  way,  that  they  had  in 
that  dear  cold  form  a  common  interest !  A  while  he  stood 
and  looked  upon  the  dead.  What  thoughts  rioted  within  his 
young  breast  no  one  there  could  guess ;  but  a  great  change 
was  working — had  indeed  already  passed  upon  him.  The 
moment  when  he  realized  that  he  was  alone  in  life,  with  no 
mother  to  feel  for  him,  with  the  hard  field  of  life  before  him, 
on  which  he  must  battle  as  he  best  could,  a  power  waked  up 
within  him  of  which  he  himself  had  not  hitherto  been  con 
scious.  He  was  no  longer  the  retiring  and,  as  others  thought, 
the  effeminate  boy.  He  almost  felt  the  strength  of  manhood 
nerving  his  frame.  He  was  now  ready  to  do  and  to  dare. 

One  and  another  of  the  family  and  of  the  neighbors  came 
in  with  slow  and  solemn  pace ;  took  a  hasty  glance  at  the 
dead ;  and  with  slow  and  solemn  pace  went  out  again. 

Mr.  Langstaff,  too,  had  heaved  his  last  sigh,  and  with  slow 
and  solemn  pace  he  too  left  the  room.  Henry  heeded  them 
not;  until  one  of  the  females  who  had  been  much  with  his 
sick  mother  approached  him,  and  in  a  gentle  tone  asked : 

"  Had  you  not  better  go  now,  dear  ?  It  is  hard,  I  know, 
to  lose  a  mother !  Go  and  try  to  rest,  and  try  to  bear  it." 

Covering  his  face — for  the  tears  need  not  now  be  restrained 
— he  turned  and  walked  away.  He  cared  not  to  mingle  with 
the  family,  and  therefore  retired  to  his  small  room  in  the 
attic.  Secure  from  interruption  for  some  time  at  least,  here 
he  wept,  as  a  loving  child  may  weep  for  such  a  loss.  And 
when  the  floods  had  ceased,  he  arose,  and  by  every  means  in 

2 


26  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST;   OK, 

bis  power  endeavored  to  remove  all  signs  of  the  deep  sorrow 
that  had  come  upon  him.  Henry  had  business  to  transact 
that  evening,  and  he  wished  to  be  prepared  for  it.  His 
thoughts  had  been  working  rapidly.  Even  while  beside  his 
mother's  corpse,  had  plans  been  formed  that  would  shape  his 
course  for  life.  But  the  business  more  immediately  upon  his 
mind  was,  if  possible,  to  prevent  the  interment  of  his  parent 
in  the  burying-place  at  Stratton. 

He  did  not  intend  to  remain  there  himself.  No  one  who 
had  ever  known  or  loved  her  reposed  there.  No  one  would 
ever  in  that  place  visit  her  grave  to  weep  there.  He  wished 
to  have  her  placed  by  the  side  of  his  father  at  Maple  Cove. 
They  had  lived  happily  together ;  and  wherever  his  lot  might 
be  cast,  he  wished  to  know  that,  in  the  churchyard  which 
had  been  so  often  passed  through  by  them  and  him  upon  the 
Sabbath-day,  they  lay  side  by  side. 

Whether  Mr.  Langstaff  would  have  any  objections  he  knew 
not,  nor  could  he  imagine  on  what  account.  But  he  must 
make  the  request,  and  that  at  once,  as  some  preparations 
would  of  course  be  necessary  beyond  those  of  a  funeral  near 
at  hand. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  sufficiently  composed,  he  descended  into 
the  kitchen,  the  place  where  in  all  probability  he  would  find 
his  father-in-law. 

The  gentleman  was  there,  seated  near  a  window  ;  his  coat 
off,  his  chin  resting  upon  his  breast,  his  hands  folded  before 
him.  He  was  enjoying  a  quiet  nap. 

Henry's  footstep  aroused  him ;  he  raised  his  head,  looked 
a  moment  as  doubting  who  it  might  be  ;  but  recognizing  his 
son-in-law,  his  countenance  at  once  assumed  an  unusually 
blank  expression,  and  in  tones  quite  soft  and  broken — 

"Ah  !  it  is  you,  my  son,  is  it?  Come,  sit  down.  Ah  !  it 
is  a  sad  time  for  us,  Henry  !  You  and  I,  and  all  of  us  I  may 
say,  have  met  with  a  sad.  loss.  Come,  sit  down !" 

Henry  had  no  intention  of  taking  a  seat,  and  the  peculiar 
manner  of  his  father-in-law  was  not  unnoticed  by  him.  It 
but  added  fuel  to  the  fire  already  kindled  in  his  breast. 

"  Mr.  Langstaff !"  Henry  had  always  called  him  father. 
The  gentleman  fairly  started  ;  he  was  fully  awakened  ;  but  ho 
had  no  time  to  express  any  surprise,  for  although  Henry  hesi 
tated  after  thus  pronouncing  the  name,  it  was  but  a  moment: 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  27 

"  If  you  have  no  serious  objections,  sir,  I  should  prefer  to 
have  my  mother  buried  at  Maple  Cove." 

"  Wby  so  ?"     The  voice  of  Mr.  Langstaff  was  quite  husky. 

"There  are  several  reasons,  sir,  why  I  wish  it.  One,  per 
haps,  will  be  sufficient  as  an  apology  for  my  making  the 
request.  My  father  lies  in  the  churcbyard  there,  and  I  wish 
that  they  might  repose  in  the  dust  together." 

Mr.  Langstaff  did  not  immediately  respond ;  he  was  noted 
as  a  very  prudent  man ;  his  neighbors  gave  him  that  charac 
ter.  And  there  were  some  things  to  think  of  beside  the 
request  just  made  to  him.  Henry's  manner  appeared  strange, 
and  he  was  trying  to  imagine  what  it  meant,  and  to  what  it 
might  lead.  As  matters  stood  between  him  and  this  orphan 
boy,  there  might  be  difficulty ;  he  therefore  moved  with 
caution. 

"  It's  quite  a  distance  to  Maple  Cove :  all  of  twelve  miles  ! 
But"— 

"  I  do  not  wish  any  persons  to  be  put  to  inconvenience  on 
account  of  the  distance.  I  can  accompany  the  remains  of 
my  mother  alone !" 

"  You  are  too  fast,  Henry,  too  fast ;  I  was  going  on  to  say : 
It  was  quite  a  distance,  to  be  sure.  But  if  it  is  your  wisb,  I 
and  ray  family  will  gladly  comply  with  it.  It  shall  certainly 
be  as  you  desire." 

•  "  I  thank  you,  sir.  And  now,  Mr.  Langstaff,  I  have  further 
to  ask  you,  whether  anything  will  be  coming  to  me  from  the 
estate  of  my  mother  !" 

"  Coming  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  coming  to  me." 

"  From  the  estate  of  your  mother  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  coming  to  me  from  the  estate  of  my  mother." 

Mr.  Langstaff  had  to  collect  his  thoughts ;  he  was  silent  a 
few  moments. 

"  Your  mother's  estate  !  Well,  and  how  much  do  you  sup 
pose  would  be  left  of  it,  taking  into  the  account  all  the  expense 
and  trouble  I  have  been  put  to  ?  Sickness  after  sickness ! 
Nobody  to  see  to  the  family  ;  servants  to  be  hired  !  Doctor's 
bills  to  pay !  It  has  been  a  very  poor  concern  for  me,  I  can 
assure  you ;  a  very  poor  concern." 

Henry  might  have  said  many  things  in  reply ;  but  his  heart 
was  too  full.  He  knew  Mr.  Langstaff'  to  be  a  close  man ;  but 


28  TRUE  TO   THE  LAST  ;   OB, 

he  had  never  before  an  idea  how  far  he  carried  his  calcula 
tions  of  profit  and  loss.  He  knew  that  his  poor  mother  had 
been  a  faithful  drudge ;  that  soon  after  she  came  to  that  house 
the  servant  had  been  dismissed ;  that  through  long  days  and 
evenings  he  had  seen  her  toiling,  toiling  on.  He  had  seen 
her  gradually  sinking  under  the  constant  round  she  was 
obliged  to  tread,  and  he  well  knew  that  the  sickness  which 
at  last  laid  her  upon  the  bed  of  death,  was  the  result  of  this 
ceaseless  toil,  unrelieved  by  the  care  or  affection  of  him  whom 
she  had  called  her  husband  !  Yes,  he  knew  it  well ;  neither 
his  eye  nor  his  heart  had  been  closed.  A  chapter  had  been 
written  upon  his  memory  that  could  never  be  erased ;  and 
with  a  perfect  loathing  of  the  man  who  could  now  speak  of 
her  as  he  would  of  a  beast  of  burden  that  had  proved  un 
profitable,  he  resolved  to  cut  short  this,  the  last  interview  he 
ever  wished  to  have  with  him  or  his. 

"You  have  said  enough,  Mr.  Langstaff!  I  leave  the  mat 
ter  forever  with  you,  and  you  can  settle  it  with  Him  who 
judges  the  widow  and  fatherless.  I  will  meet  my  mother's 
corpse  in  the  churchyard  at  Maple  Cove.  When  may  I  ex 
pect  it?" 

"  Do  you  not  mean  to  follow  as  one  of  the  mourners  ?" 
Mr.  Langstaff  was  peculiarly  sensitive  in  reference  to  public 
opinion.  "What  folks  would  think,"  or  "what  folks  would 
say,"  was  a  consideration  ever  present  to  his  mind.  "  It  will 
aryear  very  strange  indeed  !  What  will  people  say  ?  You 
certainly  ought  to  be  willing  to  pay  proper  respect  to  your 
mothei's  remains!" 

"  I  have  done  that,  Mr.  Langstaff,  while  she  lived.  I  have 
watched  by  her  through  many  a  long  night,  and  administered 
to  her  comfort,  when  but  for  me — the  boy  you  have  despised 
and  sought  to  trample  on — she  would  have  been  alone,  unat 
tended,  uncared  for!  I  only  ask  you,  sir,  to  tell  me  when  I 
may  expect  my  mother's  corpse  at  Maple  Cove,  that  I  may 
meet  it  there,  and  see  her  laid  to  rest  beside  the  body  of  my 
father  ?" 

Mr.  Langstaff  began  to  think  that  his  only  way  was  to 
make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain :  matters  grew  worse  the 
longer  he  continued  the  conference. 

"Why,  I  suppose  it  will  be  best  to  have  the  funeral  ser 
vices  performed  hero  to-morrow  afternoon ;  and  the  next 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  29 

morning,  early,  we  can  start  and  get  to  Maple  Cove  the  mid 
dle  of  the  forenoon.  But  the  grave  will  have  to  be  dug  after 
we  get  there." 

"  I  will  see  that  the  grave  is  ready,  sir." 

Making  a  slight  obeisance,  Henry  retired  to  his  room,  and 
began  preparations  for  leaving  a  home  that  had  never  been 
agreeable  to  him,  but  whose  atmosphere  was  now  loathsome 
in  the  extreme. 

He  took  from  his  trunk  the  little  purse  into  which  he  had 
put,  from  time  to  time,  such  small  presents  as  his  mother 
made  him,  from  the  tritiiug  funds  which  she  could  call  her 
own. 

He  counted  its  contents  ;  there  were  about  twenty  dollars: 
a  small  sum,  indeed,  with  which  to  be  cast  alone  upon  the 
world.  But  he  felt  that  it  was  rightfully  his  own.  Not  one 
cent  had  been  gathered  from  the  store  to  which  Mr.  Langstaff 
had  the  least  claim. 

He  then  selected  from  his  clothing  such  articles  as  he  knew 
had  been  purchased  by  his  mother  from  her  own  means,  or 
had  been  prepared  for  him  from  garments  belonging  to  his 
deceased  father ;  and  having  put  on  his  best  suit,  he  gathered 
the  remainder  of  his  articles  into  a  small  valise,  and  with  this 
in  his  hand,  descended  on  his  way  from  the  house. 

At  the  outer  door  he  met  the  young  woman  who  had  been 
now  for  some  weeks  laboring  in  the  family.  She  looked  at 
him  with  surprise ;  he  put  out  his  hand. 

"  Good  bye,  Mary." 

"  Why,  Henry,  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"I  am  going  to  Maple  Cove.  I  shall  spend  the  night, 
probably,  at  Esquire  Thompson's.  You  will  not  be  likely  to 
see  me  again.  Good  bye." 

And  before  she  had  time  to  recover  from  her  surprise, 
Henry,  with  a  quick  step,  had  passed  through  the  gate,  and 
was  on  his  way  to  seek  a  resting-place  for  the  night. 

We  will  not,  stop  to  enter  into  the  scene  of  that  evening, 
when  the  whole  matter  became  a  subject  for  consideration 
with  the  collected  family.  That  Henry  had  gone,  was,  per 
haps,  quite  satisfactory ;  and  if  he  had  only  gone  from 
the  place  entirely,  it  would  have  been  a  further  alleviation : 
they  could  then  have  put  their  own  construction  upon  the 
fact  of  his  not  accompanying  them  to  the  place  of  sepulture. 


30  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  ;   OR, 

But  that  he  should  have  gone  to  Esquire  Thompson's !  The 
great  man  of  that  region ;  the  very  place,  of  all  others,  they 
could  have  wished  he  should  not  have  gone !  It  was,  indeed, 
a  severe  trial  to  their  little  minds ;  and  no  doubt  they  made 
themselves  thoroughly  unhappy  on  account  thereof.  But  of 
Mr.  Langstaff  and  his  family  we  wish  to  say  as  little  as  pos 
sible.  The  low  habits  which  belong  to  that  class  are  the  bane 
of  country  life.  They  have  driven  hundreds  and  thousands 
from  the  noble  employment  which  the  plough  and  the  hoe 
afford.  They  are  spots  upon  the  beautiful  face  of  nature ! 
Independent  they  are,  no  doubt.  And  so  is  the  Indian,  with 
his  blanket  and  his  bow.  Laborious !  and  so  is  the  mule. 
But  for  all  that  is  really  useful,  for  all  that  sheds  a  charm 
upon  the  social  condition,  utterly  a  blank !  And  their  reli 
gion  is  sadly  in  unison  with  their  low  ideas.  It  is  cut  to  a 
pattern.  It  takes  them  to  church  on  the  Sabbath,  and  per 
haps  to  the  prayer-meeting.  It  leads  to  a  very  straight  and 
apparently  decorous  course.  It  makes  them  very  careful  to 
observe  certain  proprieties  in  ecclesiastical  and  civil  society ; 
but  it  never  opens  their  understanding  "  to  behold  the  won 
drous  things  out  of  the  Law  of  God." 

They  are  throughout  their  lives  mere  novices !  Repeating 
set  phrases — heaving  set  sighs  at  set  times,  and  substituting 
rigid  features  for  integrity  of  heart  I  Pure  Christian  love  has 
but  little  power  over  them !  The  Christian  graces  find 
no  room  in  their  little  minds — to  act  and  manifest  their 
beauty. 

Henry  paused,  as  he  reached  the  top  of  a  small  eminence 
at  no  great  distance  from  the  house,  and  turned  to  take  his 
last  look  at  it  and  its  premises.  He  could  see  it,  for  the 
moon  was  shining  brightly.  It  was  an  unpainted  building — 
two  stories  in  front,  and  with  a  "lean  to"  roof  in  the  rear. 
No  tree  threw  a  shadow  over  it.  Rough  stone  fences  encir 
cled  it.  The  pig-sty  and  the  corn-crib,  and  the  well  and  the 
hen-house,  were  all  collected  on  its  south  side.  Paths  ran 
just  where  the  footsteps  made  them,  without  regard  to  order 
or  neatness.  Henry  knew  them  well — he  remembered  how 
sick  his  heart  had  often  been  as  he  trod  through  them ;  how 
the  sun  beat  down  upon  the  hard  gravel  stones — how  at  noon 
he  had  longed  for  a  shade  where  he  might  throw  himself — 
how  he  had  seen  his  poor  mother,  toiling  as  a  slave  to  feed 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  31 

those  who  regarded  her  only  as  the  purveyor  of  their  recur 
ring  wants.  His  heart  sickened  as  the  past  came  surging  on. 
At  length,  turning  abruptly  from  the  sight,  he  went  on  his 
way.  A  slight  descent  separated  him  from  an  object  so  dis 
tasteful,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  forever 


CHAPTER   III. 

ESQUIRE  THOMPSON  was  the  man  of  most  note  in  these 
parts,  his  estate  lay  within  view  of  the  waters  of  the  Sound, 
and  was  of  itself  a  valuable  property.  The  soil  was  rich,  the 
prospect  highly  picturesque,  and  it  was  well  wooded  with  va 
luable  timber.  He  was  a  lawyer  of  some  eminence,  and  had 
a  lucrative  practice  for  the  country.  He  was  esteemed  a 
man  of  stern  integrity,  and  knew  how  to  assume  gentlemanly 
manners  when  he  felt  disposed  to  do  so.  But  from  an  indif 
ference  to  the  opinion  of  people  in  general,  or  an  unhappy 
temperament,  he  did  not  succeed  in  gaining  the  love  of  neigh 
bors  and  acquaintances.  His  temper  was  not  always  under 
proper  subjection,  and  gave  him,  as  well  as  others,  not  unfre- 
quently  some  extra  trouble.  In  his  family,  however,  he  was 
usually  mild  and  affectionate,  although,  as  men  are  perhaps 
too  apt  to  be,  rather  disposed  to  regulate  matters  by  his  own 
will.  His  house  was  the  resort  of  the  more  refined  inhabi 
tants  of  that  vicinity,  and  quite  a  circle  of  acquaintances  from 
the  city  of  New  York. 

His  excellent  lady,  to  whom  the  reader  has  been  partially 
introduced,  was  as  distinguished  for  the  benevolence  of  her 
heart,  as  for  the  beauty  of  her  person  and  the  elegance 
of  her  manners;  and  doubtless,  it  was  owing  to  her  very 
hospitable  reception  of  visitors,  that  their  home  circle  was 
so  frequently  enlarged  by  additions  from  abroad,  for  the 
squire  was  much  away,  either  engaged  in  his  office — a 
small  building  at  some  distance  from  the  house — or  attending 
court. 

Henry  had  not  been  a  very  frequent  visitor,  although  his 
reception  was  always  cordial.  He  could,  in  general,  only 
have  time  for  visiting  after  the  labors  of  the  day  were  over, 
and  in  the  season  for  labor  it  was  out  of  the  question.  Winter 
evenings  alone  afforded  him  the  opportunity,  and  an  occa 
sional  holiday  during  the  pleasanter  months  of  the  year.  He 
was  fond  of  going  there,  and  no  doubt  it  was  a  great  benefit 
for  him  to  be  able  to  mingle  with  a  circle  where  all  the  ameni- 

88 


TETTE  TO   THE   LAST.  33 

ties  of  life  were  cherished,  and  where  he  was  treated  with 
that  courtesy  to  which  at  home  he  was  a  stranger. 

Besides  the  two  young  ladies — Louise  the  niece,  and  Emma 
the  daughter,  whom  the  reader  will  remember — two  other 
daughters  and  a  son,  all  younger  than  Miss  Emma,  consti 
tuted  their  immediate  family. 

Whether  Miss  Louise  Lovelace  was  there  merely  on  a 
visit,  or  was  a  permanent  member  of  the  family,  Henry 
knew  not,  for  he  had  never  heard  any  mention  made  of  the 
matter,  nor  had  he  presumed  to  ask  the  question.  She  had 
been  trained  very  differently  from  the  daughters  of  Mrs. 
Thompson.  They  had,  no  doubt,  learned  obedience  from  their 
childhood,  it  seemed  so  easy  for  them  to  yield  up  their  wills 
and  comply  with  parental  requests.  They  had  also  a  softness 
and  delicacy  of  manner  that  must  have  been  the  result  of 
great  care,  from  a  very  early  period,  in  pruning  excrescences 
and  cherishing  the  lovelier  graces. 

Louise  did  not  lack  kindness  of  heart,  but  it  seemed  at 
times,  as  if  a  hard  struggle  was  going  on  within,  to  maintain 
just  the  deportment  which  she  knew  to  be  right;  and  while 
Emma,  and  Jane,  and  Amelia  her  cousins,  were  never  at  a  loss 
for  the  pleasantest  smile  and  the  kindest  manner,  and  the 
most  happy  address,  Louise  was  obliged  often  to  say  nothing, 
or  to  act  with  apparent  restraint.  She  had  an  impassioned 
nature,  and  often  it  chafed,  because  the  feelings  of  the  mo 
ment  could  not,  with  propriety,  be  let  out.  It  could  be  seen 
iii  her  bright  eye  and  the  curl  of  her  arched  lip — in  the 
quick  coursing  of  the  rich  blood,  that  in  an  instant  would 
mantle  her  cheek,  and  tinge  her  brow  and  neck,  and  in  her 
stately  gait  and  erect  form. 

Louise  had  never  been  so  free  with  Henry  as  had  the  other 
girls.  She  never  attempted  to  correct  him  either  in  conver 
sation,  or  at  the  piano,  as  Emrna  did,  although  she  and  Emma 
were  of  the  same  age ;  nor  did  she  take  pains  to  entertain 
him ;  and  yet,  at  times,  Henry  woujd  meet  her  bright  eye 
which  had  been  fixed  upon  him  while  others  were  engaging 
him  in  conversation,  and  at  such  a  moment  he  would  feel, 
why,  he  could  not  tell,  that  Louise,  if  he  had  a  request  to 
make,  would  be  more  ready  than  any  one  else  to  grant  it. 
That  Louise  was  thinking  kindly  of  him,  though  she  made  no 
effort  to  show  it. 

2* 


34  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  J   OR, 

On  the  evening  in  question,  the  girls,  with  their  mother 
alone,  formed  the  circle  around  the  centre-table,  all  busily 
engaged  with  their  needles,  when  the  upper  maid-servant 
carne  in,  and  with  low  voice  addressed  a  few  sentences  to  Mrs. 
Thompson. 

"  Can  that  be  so,  Maria  ?"  and  Mrs.  Thompson  laid  down 
her  work,  and  her  countenance  indicated  much  concern. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?" 

"  Ask  him  to  come  in,  Maria." 

"  I  have,  madam,  but  he  wishes  to  see  you  alone,  if  it  will 
not  be  too  much  trouble." 

"  Tell  him  I  will  come  immediately." 

"  Who  is  it,  mother  ?     Do  tell  us." 

"  It  is  Henry  !  His  mother  is  dead  !  He  is  on  his  way  to 
Maple  Cove,  and  would  like  to  stay  here  to-night.  I  think 
there  must  be  something  out  of  the  way."  And  Mrs.  Thomp 
son  arose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Now,  Emma,  there  must  be  some  truth  in  the  reports 
which  have  come  to  us.  Poor  Henry  !  He  has  had  a  hard 
life  of  it." 

"  And  we  ought  to  be  glad,  then,  that  we  have  always 
tried  to  make  it  pleasant  for  him  here.  I  wonder  what  he 
means  to  do  ?  or  whether  he  has  friends  at  Maple  Cove — no 
doubt  he  has." 

"  But  he  has  no  relations  there,  sister  Emma.  For  I 
asked  him  once  if  he  had  any  uncles  or  aunts,  and  he  said — no, 
he  had  not.  How  bad  it  must  be  not  to  have  any  friends !" 

"  Are  we  not  his  friends,  Janie  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  But  I  was  thinking  of  relations ;  friends  are 
well  enough  sometimes,  but  not  like  relations — an  uncle  or 
aunt,  or  cousin.  One  would  not  feel'  so  all  alone  in  the 
world — don't  you  think  so,  cousin  Louise  ?" 

Louise  did  not  at  once  reply,  and  as  she  was  looking  in 
tently  on  her  work,  the  little  speaker,  no  doubt,  supposed  that 
her  question  was  not  heard,  and  repeated  it  although  in  a  little 
different  form.  But  Louise  was  an  attentive  listener — for  the 
reason  that  the  subject  was  one  of  intense  interest  to  her. 
Perceiving  that  her  cousin  expected  a  reply,  she,  without 
changing  her  attitude,  answered — 

"  Yes — certainly." 

Her  hesitation  and  the  deep  color  that  suffused  her  cheeks 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  35 

were  noticed  by  all  present.     But  no  allusion  whatever  was 
made  to  the  circumstance. 

As  Mrs.  Thompson  ree'ntered  the  parlor  there  was  a  general 
exclamation. 

"  Where  is  Henry  ?" 

"  It  would  be  painful,  I  suppose,  for  him  to  form  one  of  our 
circle  to-night.  Poor  fellow  !  he  has  met  with  a  great  loss." 

"  Why  is  he  going  to  Maple  Cove  ?" 

"  His  mother  is  to  be  interred  there." 

"Does  he  intend  to  remain  at  Maple  Cove,  aunt ?"  This 
was  the  first  intimation  Louise  had  given  that  she  took  any 
interest  in  the  subject. 

"I  think  not — he  will  doubtless  return  to  Stratton ;  for  his 
mother,  I  have  always  heard,  bad  a  snug  little  property  of 
her  own ;  and,  of  course,  to  some  of  it  he  will  have  a  claim. 
But  I  shall  see  him  in  the  morning  and  will  try  to  ascertain 
how  he  is  situated  and  what  are  his  views  for  the  future." 

After  Mrs.  Thompson  had  held  quite  an  interview  with 
Henry  in  the  morning,  she  came  with  him  into  the  parlor 
that  he  might  bid  farewell  to  the  young  ladies. 

There  was  a  manifest  difference  in  the  feeling  exhibited  by 
Louise  and  her  cousins  in  taking  leave  of  Henry.  The  latter 
were  not  ashamed  to  let  it  be  seen  that  they  felt  it  as  a  sore 
trial.  They  had  learned  through  their  mother  that  he  would 
not  return  to  Stratton.  He  was  going  off  to  take  care  of 
himself.  He  had  nothing  to  receive  from  his  mother's  property, 
and  it  would  be  many  years,  if  ever,  before  they  could  again  see 
him.  How  could  they,  as  they  gave  him  the  last  friendly 
grasp,  and  spoke  the  word  "  good  bye,"  but  cover  their  faces 
and  let  their  tears  have  vent.  They  felt  sad  to  lose  one 
who  had  made  himself  very  agreeable  as  a  companion — but 
they  felt  more  keenly  the  fact  that  he  was  going  under  such 
circumstances. 

Louise  shed  no  tears,  and  scarcely  spoke  the  word  "  good 
bye."  In  fact,  between  her  and  Henry,  it  was  but  a  silent 
clasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  flushing  of  the  cheek.  What  either 
felt,  none  could  have  told.  Henry  had  not  opened  his  lips 
during  the  whole  parting  scene — his  heart  was  too  full.  To 
him  it  was  a  parting  from  all  that  was  pleasant  in  life — from 
every  heart  that  he  believed  had  any  interest  in  him.  That 
he  felt  a  deeper  pang  as  Louise  came  up  with  her  beautiful 


36  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

countenance  flushed,  indeed,  but  without  a  tear-drop;  with 
out  an  audible  word — her  eye  calmly  fixed  upon  his,  and 
their  hands  clasped.  No  one  could  have  told — no  one,  per 
haps,  thought  of  the  matter.  All  were  sad,  for  themselves, 
and  for  him. 

Henry  is  off — they  watch  hina  as  he  closes  the  gate  and, 
with  his  little  portmanteau  in  Band,  walks  on  his  way  with 
his  usual  quick  step. 

"Poor  fellow  !  He  is  going  to  bury  his  mother,  and  then 
find  his  way  as  he  best  can  into  the  busy  world !  Henry  is 
a  brave  boy  and  has  a  more  noble,  manly  spirit  than  some 
give  him  credit  for." 

As  Mrs.  Thompson  said  this,  Louise  walked  away  from  the 
window — she  had  been  looking  with  the  rest,  and  as  she 
left  the  room,  little  Jane  remarked  : 

"I  don't  see  how  it  is  that  cousin  Louise  can  keep  back 
her  tears — I  am  sure  Henry  always  thought  everything  of 
her.  But,  may  be,  she  has  gone  to  have  a  cry  all  by 
herself." 

No  reply  was  made  to  this  remark,  as  Louise,  although 
treated  with  much  kindness,  had,  from  some  circumstances 
peculiar  to  her  situation,  not  quite  that  congeniality  which 
they  could  all  have  wished,  and  many  things  which  she  did 
were  allowed  to  pass  without  comment. 

As  riding  on  horseback  was  a  favorite  pastime  with  her, 
and  as  she  usually  went  alone,  it  was  no  surprise  to  the 
family  to  see  her  mounted  on  Pomp,  her  own  pony,  soon 
after  breakfast,  and  galloping  off  at  a  round  rate. 

The  highway  which  passed  the  mansion  of  Esquire  Thomp 
son  was  that  which  led  through  the  chief  towns  bordering 
on  the  Sound,  and  Maple  Cove  being  one  of  these,  Henry,  of 
course,  was  then  traversing  it,  and  was  no  doubt  some  few 
miles  on  bis  way,  for  nearly  an  hour  had  elapsed  since  he 
started. 

That  Louise  had  some  other  object  in  view  than 
merely  a  ride  for  pleasure,  was  very  evident.  For  she 
started  at  a  full  gallop,  to  the  no  small  displeasure  of  the  old 
hostler,  who  muttered  not  a  few  harsh  expressions  against 
her;  no  doubt  having  in  view  some  extra  trouble  over 
Pomp's  lathered  hide  when  again  committed  to  his  care. 

About  one  mile  from  the  house,- a  lane  ran  off  from  the 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  37 

highway,  apparently  diverging  almost  at  right  angles — but 
in  reality  leading  by  a  short  cut  into  the  highway  again,  as 
the  latter  was  obliged  to  take  a  circuitous  route  in  doubling 
the  eminences  that  jut  out  into  the  Sound  and  the  coves  that 
so  frequently  run  up  into  the  land.  Into  this  lane  Louise 
turned,  and  it  may  as  well  be  said  at  once,  that  she  did  so 
that  she  might  attain  a  point  upon  the  highway  before  Henry 
should  reach  it ;  for  she  was  in  pursuit  of  him.  And  yet 
she  did  not  care  to  have  her  motive  so  prominent  as  she 
thought  it  would  be,  if  she  should  follow  him  upon  the  road 
and  come  up  behind  him  on  a  gallop.  Pomp  was  put  to  his 
speed  through  the  lane,  and  being  very  confident  that  Henry 
could  not  yet  have  passed  that  point,  she  immediately,  on 
entering  the  highway,  brought  her  pony  to  a  walk,  turning 
his  head  toward?  home. 

What  her  motives  were  in  seeking  the  interview,  perhaps 
she  hardly  knew.  But  she  was  very  unhappy — she  was  sad 
at  losing  one  who,  for  particular  reasons,  could  sympathize 
with  her  as  she  thought  no  one  else  could,  and  she  had  strong 
sympathy  for  him.  There  had  been  more  in  common  between 
them,  than  any  of  the  family  knew  of  besides  herself.  She  had 
not  been  as  free  with  him,  as  she  now  wished  she  had  been. 
He  had  communicated  to  her  many  of  his  trials;  but  her 
own  she  had  not  told  him — and  she  was  not  satisfied  with 
the  manner  of  their  parting.  She  had  not  acted  as  she  felt — 
she  might  never  see  him  again,  and  she  resolved  their  last 
adieu  should  not  be  always  a  reproach  to  her  heart.  What 
she  should  say  to  him,  or  how  she  would  feel  when  they  met, 
was  not  a  subject  of  thought  until  she  was  expecting  every 
moment  to  see  him.  For  nearly  a  mile  she  allowed  Pomp 
to  amble  along  at  a  gentle  pace,  hoping  as  she  gained  the 
summit  of  each  acclivity  in  the  road  to  catch  a  glimpse  of 
him  whom  she  so  ardently  wished  to  meet,  until  at  length 
she  began  to  fear  that  he  must  have  passed  the  point  where 
the  lane  entered  the  highway  before  she  reached  it;  and  a 
multitude  of  thoughts  crowded  upon  her.  Why  had  she 
been  so  careful  to  hide  from  every  eye  the  fact  that  she  felt 
for  him,  when  others  had  treated  him  with  marked  kindness 
and  attention  ?  why  had  she  been  so  reserved — so  cold — so 
apparently  heartless  ?  when  others  were  not  ashamed  to  shed 
tears  at  his  departure — why  had  she  kept  the  sweet  fountain 


38  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  J   OE, 

sealed  and  even  allowed  him  to  grasp  her  hand  without  the 
return  of  a  friendly  pressure  ?  She  knew  not  why  it  had 
been ;  but  of  one  thing  she  was  certain — it  was  not  for  the 
want  of  that  feeling  which  others  manifested.  If  she  could 
have  done  it  without  being  noticed,  she  would  have  wept 
bitter  tears. 

"  Why  Miss  Louise !" 

Louise  started  ;  she  had  been  deeply  engrossed  with  her 
thoughts  and  was  at  the  time,  while  ascending  a  hill,  brush 
ing  away  the  flies  that  were  trying  to  feast  upon  the  lathered 
sides  of  her  pony. 

"  Oh,  Henry,  how  glad  I  am  ;  I  feared  you  had  passed  the 
lane,  and  I  had  missed  you." 

"  Then  you  have  come  on  purpose  to  meet  me  ?"  and 
Henry  looked  inquiringly  at  her,  as  though  utterly  at  a  loss 
to  account  for  the  motives  of  such  a  visit. 

"  Help  me  off,  Henry." 

It  was  too  late  to  attempt  any  disguise,  and  Louise  was 
resolved  there  should  be  none  on  her  part.  Between  Henry 
and  herself  there  should  be  no  more  reserve. 

Henry's  portmanteau  was  dropped  at  the  instant,  and 
his  hands  extended  to  her.  She  saw  his  bright  eyes  glis 
tening  as  she  threw  herself  upon  his  arm,  and  yielding  to 
the  pressure  which  had  been  accumulating  upon  her 
heart,  broke  forth  into  a  flood  of  tears.  Henry  was  much 
alarmed. 

"  What  is  it,  Miss  Louise  ?  what  have  I  done  ?  what  can  I 
do?  who  has  troubled  you  ?" 

Louise  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  shook  her  head ;  it 
was  the  only  answer  she  could  then  give  him. 

The  storm  in  her  breast  had  been  long  gathering,  and  in 
proportion  to  the  force  which  had  controlled  it  hitherto,  was 
its  violence  when  once  released. 

Sensible  that  the  highway  was  not  the  best  place  for  them 
under  present  circumstances,  Henry  led  her  into  a  copse  of  ce 
dars  that  skirted  the  road,  fastened  Pomp,  and  selected  a  rock, 
upon  which  he  begged  Louise  to  be  seated,  and  asked  most 
earnestly  if  she  would  let  him  know  what  he  could  do  for  her. 

"  I  want  to  say  a  few  things  to  you,  Henry  ;  but  first  of  all 
I  want  to  hear  you  say  that  you  forgive  me  for  my  coldness 
of  manner  towards  you  this  morning." 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  39 

"  Oh,  Miss  Louise,  do  not  say  a  word  about  that ;  please  not 
to  think  of  it  for  a  moment.  I  assure  you" 

"  But  say  it — say  you  forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  I  assure  you,  I  have  nothing  to  forgive." 

"  But  you  have  thought  of  it — I  know  you  have ;  yes,  I 
know  you  have ;"  for  Henry  could  not  deny  it,  and  fearing 
to  give  her  pain  by  telling  what  he  had  thought  and  felt, 
made  no  answer.  "  But  you  say  you  have  forgiven  me,  and  I 
believe  what  you  say.  I  did  not  then  act  as  I  felt;  I  did  not 
wish  those  about  me  to  suppose  I  had  feeling  for  any  one." 

"  But  why  so,  Miss  Louise  ?" 

"  Henry,  you  will  please  me  by  dropping  the  title  you  add 
to  my  name ;  it  has  never  been  agreeable  to  me,  but  es 
pecially  is  it  unpleasant  now.  I  have  ventured,  this  morn 
ing,  to  do  what  many  would  call  a  bold  thing,  and  for  which. 
I  should  be  very  much  blamed ;  and  all  for  the  purpose,  first 
of  telling  you  that  I  was  sensible  of  having  done  wrong,  and 
asking  you  to  forgive  me,  and  then  I  wanted  to  tell  you  some 
things  which  I  must  commit  to  somebody  whose  friendship  I 
can  rely  upon  ;  and  I  feel  more  confidence  in  you  than  in  any 
other  human  being — why  I  cannot  tell,  but  I  believe  you  are 
my  friend.  Oh,  will  you  be  to  me  a  brother,  and  allow  me  to 
take  a  sister's  place  ?  I  can  help  you,  Henry,  I  have  means 
at  my  command.  You  have  been  turned  off  destitute ;  now 
let  me  share  with  you  what  I  have.  And  let  me  know  all 
that  you  are  going  to  do,  and  where  you  are  going  to  live. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  everything." 

"  Your  kindness  is  very  great ;  to  be  thought  of  by  you,  is 
more  than  I  have  dared  to  hope  for.  You  cannot  tell  how  I 
feel  on  account  of  what  you  have  just  said.  I  need  nothing 
further  to  stimulate  me  on  my  way.  It  is  true,  I  am  without 
kindred  ;  I  have  no  friends  to  aid  me  in  procuring  a  situation 
where  I  can  sustain  myself;  I  have  no  large  supply  of  means. 
But  I  do  not  fear ;  I  am  willing  to  work,  and  I  think  I  can 
find,  in  the  city,  employment  more  suitable  for  me,  than  that 
to  which  I  should  be  held  if  I  remain  here.  I  need  no  other 
aid  trom  you  than  the  courage  your  words  have  imparted. 
But  tell  me,  what  can  I  do  for  you !" 

"I  will  tell  you,  Henry,  but  not  until  this  is  settled  first ; 
you  know  I  have  wealth,  or  at  least  shall  have  it  when  at  a 
certain  age.  I  have  more  money  than  I  need  to  spend  ;  take 


40  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  }   OR, 

this  purse,  at  least;  it  will  make  me  feel  happier — do, 
Henry." 

She  held  it  forth  to  him.  Tears  started  from  his  eyes  ;  he 
grasped  the  hand  which  held  the  little  treasure;  he  knew 
that  she  was  in  earnest,  and  the  reception  by  him  of  this 
token  would  give  her  pleasure,  but  his  heart  revolted. 

"Do  not  chide  me — Louise,  dear  Louise,  but  I  cannot 
take  it." 

"  Not  after  what  I  have  said  and  done  ?  I  may  not  feel 
then,  Henry,  that  you  accept  my  offer  to  be  a  sister  to  you  ? 
I  may  not  look  upon  you  as  a  brother  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  not  speak  so  ;  do  not  take  such  a  meaning  from 
my  refusal.  You  have  asked  me  to  be  frank  with  you,  to  tell 
you  all ;  I  will.  I  do  not  say  you  think  so,  but  I  know  well 
enough  that  some  persons  have  an  opinion  that  I  am  not 
able  to  take  care  of  myself,  and  that  I  never  shall  accomplish 
anything  in  the  way  of  making  a  living. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  it  will  be,  for  I  am  about  to  seek  a  situ 
ation  in  a  line  of  business  different  'from  any  I  have  been 
engaged  in,  but  I  have  no  fear  on  my  account.  I  have  this 
morning  declined  a  kind  offer  from  your  aunt,  that  I  should  re 
turn,  and  make  her  house  my  home,  and  that  Mr.  Thompson 
would  no  doubt  assist  me  in  some  way.  I  declined  it  for  the 
reason  that  I  knew  he  had  expressed  the  opinion  '  that  I  am 
an  effeminate  boy,  and  will  never  make  much  of  a  man.'  I 
hardly  know  what  I  am,  Louise,  but  if  I  die  in  the  attempt, 
I  will  throw  myself  on  my  own  resources.  And  if  I  arrive 
at  independence  it  shall  not  be  by  the  aid  of  any  who  have 
ever  known  me.  And  now  can  you  not  enter  into  my  feel 
ings  ?  Would  you  not,  if  in  my  place,  act  as  I  do  ?" 

Louise  looked  at  him  with  intense  interest ;  she  saw  the 
color  mount  his  cheeks,  she  knew  he  was  much  excited. 

"I  will  say  no  more  about  it,  Henry.  I  would  not  injure 
your  feelings,  nor  do  anything  that  would  humble  you  in  youc 
own  opinion.  I  cannot  help  feeling  for  you  in  your  lone 
condition,  because  I  am  a  lone  one  myself." 

"  Do  not  say  so,  dear  Louise !  Have  you  not  relatives  who 
treat  you  as  their  own  child  ?  Have  you  not  wealth  to  make 
you  independent,  even  should  they  forsake  you  ?" 

"I  have  wealth,  Henry,  that  is  true.  But,  oh  !  you  do  not 
know  how  utterly  worthless  it  is  to  me !" 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  41 

"  I  cannot  understand  why  you  should  say  so." 

"  You  will,  when  I  have  told  you  more.  You  feel  sad,  I 
know,  Hejiry,  that  you  are  left  without  father  or  mother. 
You  are  now  on  a  sad  journey,  going  to  prepare  a  resting 
place  for  the  body  of  your  last  parent.  But,  oh  !  Henry,  if 
I  could  be  in  your  place,  how  gladly  would  I  give  up  all  the 
property  I  may  ever  call  my  own !  I  would  willingly  ex 
change  places  with  the  meanest  servant  in  the  land,  and  work 
hard  to  the  end  of  my  days,  could  I  thereby  roll  off  the  dark 
cloud  that  hides  from  me  those  who  gave  me  birth.  My 
father  may  have  been  the  man  who  was  hung  a  year  ago ! 
And  my  mother  I  may  see,  perhaps,  in  the  poor  wretch  that 
is  hooted  at  by  the  boys,  and  finds  a  shelter  within  a  barn  or 
beneath  a  stack  of  hay  !  Henry,  I  am  a  foundling !" 

The  poor  girl  was  so  exhausted  by  the  excitement  of  her 
feelings,  that  the  last  sentence  came  forth  in  a  whisper ;  and 
then,  covering  her  face,  gave  vent  to  the  agony  of  her  trou 
bled  spirit.  Henry  was  deeply  affected ;  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  arm. 

"  Dear  Louise,  what  can  T  do  for  you  ?" 

It  was  some  time  before  she  could  reply — 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  I  wish  you  to  do.  I  cannot  remain 
where  I  am.  My  life  is  too  irksome.  I  would  rather  die  than 
remain  in  my  present  position  !" 

"Are  not  you  aunt  and  uncle  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  You  forget,  Henry.  I  have  no  aunt,  nor  uncle,  nor  cou 
sins,  nor  relations  of  any  kind.  No  one  owns  me.  Kind ! 
Oh  !  yes,  they  are  kind  ;  but  their  kindness  cannot  shield  me 
from  the  trials  to  which  I  am  exposed.  It  was  not  until  the 
past  year  that  I  had  any  clear  knowledge  of  my  true  situa 
tion,  and  then  only  by  accident.  I  saw  the  will  by  which 
the  property  I  shall  have  was  bequeathed  to  me.  I  was  called 
his  adopted  daughter.  That  led  me  to  make  decided  inqui 
ries,  and  I  have  learned  the  whole  truth.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thompson  ate  only  relatives  in  name !  I  feel  that  I  am 
doomed  to  misery.  I  wish  to  get  away  :  I  care  not  where. 
Any  part  of  the  world  will  be  the  same  to  me.  I  have  felt 
a  strange  confidence  in  you,  Henry ;  I  have  told  you  what  I 
have  never  told  to  any  other  human  being.  Perhaps  you 
think  I  am  very  bold  to  do  so  ?" 

Henry  thought  not  of  consequences.     He  had  always  been 


4:2  TKTTE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

partial  to  Louise ;  her  confiding  manner  at  the  first  of  this 
interview  had  given  him  courage.  Hope  that  she  might 
possibly  love  him,  for  the  first  time  awoke  in  his  breast.  He 
thought  not  of  their  youth ;  nor  of  the  danger  of  forming 
such  ties,  with  but  little  more  than  the  experience  of  child 
hood.  He  thought  not  of  her  circumstances :  her  wealth,  or 
her  uncertain  parentage,  were  disregarded  alike.  All  he 
thought  of  was,  that  the  beautiful  and  proud  girl  whom  he 
had  so  long  admired,  had  taken  pains  to  meet  him ;  had 
manifested  an  interest  for  him  ;  was  now  weeping  by  his 
side,  and  looking  to  him  as  a  friend  and  confidant!  He 
was  completely  divested  of  what  judgment  he  usually  pos 
sessed,  and  without  pausing  to  consider,  made  an  earnest 
appeal  to  Louise  that  she  would  promise  him,  if  he  should 
succeed  in  his  plans — if  he  should  gain  a  respectable  station 
in  life — she  would  share  life  with  him  ! 

Louise  was  younger  than  Henry ;  but  she  manifested  clearly 
that  precocity  which  so  distinguishes  the  female  sex,  espe 
cially  as  to  the  finer  shades  of  feeling.  Her  thoughts  had 
been  intently  occupied  with  the  peculiarities  of  her  situation 
for  some  months ;  and  she  had  looked  far  ahead  into  the 
future  of  her  being.  Developments,  she  knew,  might  yet  be 
made,  that  would  be  most  humbling  to  her  pride.  Alone, 
she  could,  in  some  way,  bear  the  worst.  But  to  know  that 
any  connected  with  her  in  the  relations  she  might  form  in 
life,  should  feel  the  blush  of  shame  tinging  their  cheek  on 
her  account — that  would  be  a  trial  she  should  never  dare 
to  risk.  Her  proud  spirit  revolted  with  horror  from  the 
fearful  thought.  She  looked  at  him  a  moment,  and  then 
replied : 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  Henry,  do  not  let  such  a  thought  enter 
your  mind.  I  love  you,  Henry  !  I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it. 
I  shall  always  love  you.  But  no,  no,  no !  never  will  I  let 
you,  by  anything  that  I  may  say,  think  of  such  a  step.  No, 
Henry ;  no  earthly  object  would  induce  me,  with  this  curse 
resting  upon  me,  to  unite  myself  with  one  worthy  as  I  believe 
you  are  and  will  be.  Never  ask  it  again.  What  I  have 
asked  of  you,  Henry,  is  that  you  would  take  the  place  of  a 
brother  to  me.  My  wish  is  to  get  away  as  soon  as  1  can 
from  all  those  who  have  any  knowledge  of  me,  and  I  want 
your  help." 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  4:3 

"  In  what  way,  dear  Louise,  can  I  help  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now.  And  besides,  I  am  detaining  you 
too  long ;  you  have  a  long  walk  to  take.  I  fear  I  have  not 
thought  of  that  enough  already.  Oh,  Henry,  I  am  very  sel 
fish  !  But  will  you  meet  me  here  in  a  few  days  ?  How  soon 
will  you  return  ?" 

"  I  have  nowhere  to  return  to,  Louise  !  I  never  expected, 
when  I  parted  with  you  this  morning,  to  see  you  again,  or  at 
least  for  many  years." 

"  Oh,  I  have  forgotten  all  that !  I  forget  everything  but 
my  own  troubles;  and  I  fear  I  have  been  very  selfish  in 
troubling  you  with  a  relation  of  my  peculiar  circumstances ! 
Pardon  me,  Henry,  and  although  I  can  never  be  to  you  any 
nearer  than  I  am  now,  yet  take  this  little  token,  and  keep  in 
miud  that  you  have  one  friend,  who  will  ever  be  ready  to 
stand  by  you  to  the  very  last." 

And  as  she  spoke,  she  took  from  her  finger  a  ring  made  of 
hair,  fastened  with  a  gold  clasp. 

"  It  is  my  own  hair,  Henry.     And  now,  good  bye." 

"  I  cannot  part  from  you  so,  Louise !  I  must  know  what 
I  can  do  for  you  ?  I  will  do  anything  you  request." 

"  I  believe  you  would,  Henry.  But  I  see  now  that  there 
would  be  difficulties  in  the  way  of  your  assisting  me,  which 
I  did  not  think  of  before.  When  I  need  your  help,  I  will 
call  upon  you.  It  will  be  a  comfort  to  me  that  I  can  feel 
that  there  is  one  to  whom  I  can  go  with  perfect  confidence. 
All  I  ask  of  you  now  is,  that  when  you  procure  a  place,  I 
may  have  your  address." 

As  brother  and  sister  might  have  bade  farewell,  so  did 
Henry  and  Louise.  Their  hearts  were  full  of  confidence ; 
and  to  each  there  has  been  imparted  something  which  has 
made  their  burdens  lighter — at  least,  for  the  present.  But 
this  scene  will  never  be  forgotten  by  them ;  and  in  all  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  their  future  life,  it  will  have  a  place. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHEN  Louise  separated  from  Henry,  she  did  not  at  once 
gallop  off  for  home.  In  fact,  she  felt  in  no  haste  to  return. 
Her  home  was  becoming  distasteful  to  her,  and  never  before 
did  she  feel  so  little  pleasure  in  the  thought  of  meeting  the 
members  of  her  family,  although  they  had  always  treated  her 
with  much  kindness.  She  could  only  think  of  Henry  and  of 
the  scene  through  which  she  had  just  passed.  He  was  nearer 
to  her  now  than  ever,  for  she  had  made  a  confidant  of  him 
in  reference  to  matters  hitherto  a  sacred  secret  with  herself, 
or  if  known  to  others,  never  alluded  to  by  them. 

That  Esquire  Thompson  and  his  wife  knew  the  peculiarity 
of  her  situation,  she  was  well  aware ;  although  not  a  word 
had  passed  between  them  and  her  on  the  subject.  And  pos 
sibly  the  elder  daughters  knew  that  she  was  not  their  true 
cousin,  and  may  have  understood  somewhat  concerning  her 
past  history ;  but  Louise  was  never  made  conscious,  even  by 
the  most  distant  hint,  that  they  regarded  her  otherwise  than 
as  their  own  flesh  and  blood — their  own  cousin  Louise. 

The  story  of  her  life  can  be  told  in  few  words.  When  an 
infant  of  some  few  months  old,  she  was  found  one  morning 
within  the  front  area  of  a  house  in  New  York,  where  lived 
two  aged  people  of  respectable  character,  but  in  straitened 
circumstances.  In  order  to  meet  their  expenses  they  had  for 
some  years  boarded  a  gentleman  who  once  had  followed  the 
pea,  but  having  accumulated  a  competency,  left  his  profession 
and  spent  his  time  in  making  the  most  of  what  he  had  earned, 
and  by  successful  operations  in  lots  and  stocks  had  become  a 
man  of  wealth.  He  was  unmarried,  and  having  no  relatives 
that  he  knew  or  cared  for,  resolved  to  adopt  the  little  stranger. 
A  nurse  was  hired,  and  the  old  people  handsomely  remunerated 
for  their  oversight.  The  child  survived  all  the  hardships  of 
its  young  life,  and  grew  up  in  health  and  beauty ;  but  with 
out  those  endearments  which  most  children  experience.  Her 
self-appointed  father  manifested  as  much  interest  as  could 
have  been  expected;  but  as  his  heart  had  never  been  softened 

44 


TKUE  TO   THE   LAST.  45 

by  the  power  of  parental  feelings,  it  could  not  be  effected  by 
the  mere  adoption  of  one  in  whom  he  felt  no  interest  but 
that  excited  by  caprice  or  pity.  As  soon  as  she  was  old 
enough,  she  was  sent  to  a  boarding-school,  which  happened 
to  be  near  the  residence  of  Esquire  Thompson,  and  as  Capt. 
Lovelace,  her  reputed  father,  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
that  gentleman,  she  was  committed  specially  to  his  superin 
tendence  and  that  of  his  excellent  lady. 

There  Louise  spent  all  her  time  when  not  at  school,  and  the 
title  which  she  gave  them  of  uncle  and  aunt  was  one  which 
they  adopted  of  their  own  accord ;  doubtless  for  the  purpose 
of  making  the  little  orphan  feel  more  free  among  them,  and 
not  so  entirely  alone  in  the  world.  When  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  Captain  Lovelace  died  and  left  by  will  the  bulk  of  his 
property  to  her,  appointing  Esquire  Thompson  her  sole 
guardian. 

Louise  had  suffered  some  trials  at  school  from  the  incon 
siderate  questions  of  her  mates,  which  resulted  in  her  deter 
mination  to  expose  herself  in  this  way  no  longer.  She  was 
now  fifteen,  and  with  a  very  determined  will ;  when  once  her 
resolution  was  fixed  it  was  not  easy  to  change  it.  Mrs. 
Thompson,  too,  sympathized  with  the  child,  and  suspecting  the 
cause  for  her  wishing  to  leave  school,  without  closely  question 
ing  her  on  the  subject,  urged  her  husband  to  allow  Louise  to 
remain  with  them  and  attain  what  she  yet  needed  to  learn 
by  her  own  efforts. 

But  Louise  had  not  only  a  determined  will ;  she  was  also 
possessed  of  the  keenest  sensibility.  Her  feelings  were 
strong,  and  she  was  doubtless  capable  of  the  most  ardent 
attachment,  could  her  mind  have  been  free  from  those  sus 
picions  which  arose  from  the  peculiarity  of  her  situation. 
Acts  of  kindness  and  marks  of  attention  were  not  properly 
appreciated  by  her.  She  doubted  the  motives  from  which 
they  sprung;  and,  in  general,  found  that  pity  was  the  mov 
ing  cause.  So  she  gave  not  her  heart  in  return  to  any. 
Those  tender  emotions,  which  at  her  age  so  readily  go  forth 
to  meet  the  love  of  relatives  and  friends  and  all  who  are 
ready  to  reciprocate  them,  were  by  her  restrained ;  all  kept 
back  in  fear  and  suspicion,  cloistered  within  her  own  heart — 
with  one  exception. 

Towards  Henry  she  had  always  felt  differently  than  to  any 


4:6  TEUB   TO   THE  LAST;   OK, 

other  whom  she  knew.  He  had  not,  probably,  designed  to 
show  her  any  marked  attention,  but  from  various  tokens 
which  love  unwittingly  bestows  on  the  favored  one,  she  was 
very  sure  that  he  felt  a  sincere  regard,  and  he  too  was  pecu 
liarly  situated;  especially  was  this  the  case  on  the  morning 
when  he  had  taken  his  farewell,  and  was  a  friendless  orphan, 
cut  loose  to  steer  as  he  best  could  upon  a  wide,  wide  sea,  his 
lonely  bark.  But  we  have  made  a  long  parenthesis  while 
Louise  has  been  sitting  on  her  pony,  and  we  must  now 
follow  her  motions. 

So  long  as  she  could  see  Henry  upon  the  road  she  kept  her 
eye  fixed  on  him,  and  when  no  longer  visible,  she  turned  her 
horse's  head  towards  home,  and,  suffering  the  reins  to  hang 
upon  the  pummel  of  his  saddle,  allowed  him  to  walk  at  his 
leisure. 

She  had,  however,  gone  but  a  few  paces  on  the  road  when 
a  woman  emerged  from  the  clump  of  cedars  where  she 
and  Henry  had  held  their  interview,  and  came  towards  her. 
She  was  neatly  dressed,  although  the  materials  of  her  cloth 
ing  were  of  the  commoner  kind.  Her  mien  was  that  of  one 
who  felt  somewhat  independent.  She  was  well  formed,  her 
countenance  rather  pleasing,  and  as  she  came  up  to  Louise  a 
smile  lighted  it  up. 

"  Good  morning,  my  dear !" 

"  Good  morning,  Caroline.     How  do  you  do  this  morning  ?" 

"Oh,  1  am  blithe  as  a  lark!  You  know  I  am  always 
well.  I  love  the  free  air  and  the  early  dew,  and  the  woods 
and  the  pretty  streams,  and  I  keep  close  to  them  and  they 
keep  me  well.  But  what  made  you  ride  so  fast  this  morning, 
my  dear  ?" 

Louise  blushed  deeply,  and,  hesitating  a  moment,  answered  : 

"  Because  I  choose  to." 

f  "  And  why  did  you  not  go  along  with  that  youngster  that 
your  heart  is  with  ?  You  have  been  looking  very  wistfully 
that  way — the  way  he  was  going." 

"  Because  I  didn't  choose  to." 

"  And  what  if  Squire  Thompson  should  hear  that  Louise 
Lovelace  meets  young  men  in  the  Cedar  Grove  ?" 

''  Caroline  Jeralman,  I  know  of  no  right  you  have  to  be 
always  crossing  my  path  and  having  something  to  say  about 
my  affairs.  If  I  did  meet  a  young  man  and  choose  to 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  47 

meet  him  again,  it  neither  concerns  you  nor  Esquire  Thomp 
son,  nor  any  one  else  !" 

"Except "me  S" 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  Caroline,  what  right  you  have  to 
blend  yourself  with  me  or  my  afi'airs  in  any  way  ?  you  have 
done  it  before  now,  and  I " 

"Yes,  but!"  exclaimed  the  woman,  interrupting  Louise, 
"  you  know  it  was  always  done  for  your  good  !" 

Louise  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Her  eye  losing  its  keen 
ness  and  the  lids  slightly  drooping,  while  the  crimson  mantled 
her  beautiful  face  and  neck. 

"  It  was  for  your  good,  you  know  it  was,  my  dear.  Didn't 
I  know  how  you  were  troubled  by  the  naughty  schoolgirls ; 
and  didn't  I  tell  them  you  had  better  blood  in  your  veins 
than  ever  ran  in  theirs,  be  they  who  they  might  ?" 

"  Caroline,"  said  Louise,  again  lifting  her  eye  and  fixing  it 
earnestly  as  she  spoke — her  tone  of  voice  was  much  softer 
than  before — "  what  do  you  know  of  me  ?  How  do  you 
know  what  blood  runs  in  my  veins  ?" 

"  Oh,  can't  I  tell  when  one  is  come  of  a  good  stock  by  their 
very  look  ?  Haven't  I  seen  your  dear  little  hand  before  now, 
and  don't  I  know  all  the  marks  upon  it  ?" 

" Caroline,  I  don't  believe  in  your  fortune  telling;  that  is 
all  put  on ;  nor  do  you  believe  in  it  yourself." 

The  countenance  of  the  young  woman,  for  she  was  not 
much  past  thirty,  assumed  a  cast  altogether  different  from 
that  which  it  had  assumed  on  her  first  appearance.  There 
was  no  lightness  in  it,  but  a  sad  and  earnest  expression.  And 
Louise  continued : 

"You  know  you  don't,  Caroline;  and  you  know  that 
before  this  you  have  made  remarks  of  the  same  kind,  when  I 
knew  you  were  in  sober  earnest.  You  have  said  that  you  knew 
more  about  me  than  any  one  else." 

"  Well,  what  if  I  did  ?"  • 

"  Why  if  you  do,  you  are  very  wicked  to  keep  me  from  that 
which  I  want  to  know  above  all  things  else." 

"  Sometimes  it  is  well  for  us  not  to  know.  There  is  many 
a  child  that  had  better  never  known  who  were  its  parents." 

Louise  was  deeply  agitated.  At  one  moment  she  was  on 
the  point  of  springing  to  the  ground  and  falling  at  the  feet  of 
this  woman  who  had  so  often,  and  in  many  different  ways, 


48  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

manifested  an  interest  in  her  affairs,  and  had  intimated  that 
she  possessed  a  knowledge  of  her  which  others  had  not,  and 
with  tears  beg  her  to  unfold  the  mystery  of  her  birth,  if  she 
really  knew  anything  concerning  it.  But  she  had  not  quite 
confidence  enough  in  the  perfect  soundness  of  mind  of  this 
•woman,  although  she  had  just  told  her  that  her  conduct,  at 
times,  was  merely  assumed. 

"  If  you  do  not  know  anything  about  me,  Caroline,  why  is 
it  that  wherever  I  am,  you  always  contrive  to  get  near  me? 
Why  do  you  not  let  me  alone  ?  I  tell  you  I  will  not  bear  it. 
I  shall  complain  to  Esquire  Thompson,  and  he  will  have  you 
taken  up  for  a  vagrant." 

"  I  am  no  vagrant,  Miss  Louise  Lovelace ;  I  live  in  my  own 
house  ;  it  may  be  small  and  rough,  to  be  sure,  but  it  covers  me. 
And  the  food  I  eat  in  it  is  earned  by  my  own  fingers;  it  is 
simple  enough,  and  poor  enough  sometimes,  but  I  eat  it  with 
out  feeling  that  I  am  beholden  to  any  one  for  it." 

Louise  sprang  from  her  horse,  and  seizing  the  hand  of 
Caroline,  looked  up  at  her  with  eyes  suffused  .with  tears. 

"  I  have  been  unjust,  Caroline,  oh  do  forgive  me." 

"  I  do  forgive  you." 

"  And  now  here,  do  take  this."  And  Louise  pulled  out 
her  purse,  "  take  it  all,  and  you  shall  have  more — oh,  do 
take  it,  Caroline." 

"  No,  no,  no ;  not  one  cent  from  any  one,  much  less  from- 
you ;  oh,  it  would  burn  like  fire  in  my  breast.  No,  no,  no  ;  I 
thank  you,  dear  child.  I  never  lay  up  anything  against  you, 
for  I  know  your  heart  is  better  than  your  speech  or  your 
actions.  But  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  to  you  :  1  saw  that 
young  man  on  the  road,  and  I  saw  you  riding  in  a  way  that 
made  "me  suspect  something  was  not  right,  and  I  watched  you. 
I  knew  you  always  favored  him  ;  it  is  for  your  good,  Louise," 
seeing  Louise  putting  on  a  look  of  displeasure,  "yes,  I 
watched  you,  I  saw  you  meet  him,  and  you  came  into  the 
clump  of  cedars,  and  I  watched  you  there,  and  I  heard  all 
you  said,  and  I  am  glad  I  did  so.  It  will  be  of  no  use,  you 
will  not  get  away." 

"  Who  shall  prevent  it  ?" 

"  There  are  more  ways  than  one  to  prevent  it ;  but  one 
will  be  enough  ;  it  is  only  for  me  to  let  Esquire  Thompson 
know  of  your  design." 


ALONK   ON    A  WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  49 

"  How  can  he  stop  me  ?  he  is  not  ray  master." 

"  He  is  your  guardian  ;  he  has  power  to  keep  you  closely 
confined,  if  he  pleases,  and  he  has  power  to  prosecute  Henry 
Thornton,  for  endeavoring  to  entice  away  his  ward,  and  he 
can  put  him  in  jail  for  it." 

Louise  was  now  deadly  pale ;  there  was,  no  doubt,  some 
truth  in  what  Caroline  said ;  but  the  idea  that  any  one  had 
power  thus  to  baulk  her  will,  was  too  much  for  her  proud 
spirit. 

"  And  suppose  he  is  my  guardian  ;  it  is  only  over  my  pro 
perty.  The  man  who  appointed  him  was  not  my  father ;  he 
had  no  power  to  say  who  should  control  my  will.  I  am  free 
— I  will  be  free.  They  may  keep  the  property,  but  they 
shall  not  say  what  I  may  or  may  not  do ;  I  won't  bear  it." 

And  Louise  burst  into  a  passionate  flood  of  tears.  Caro 
line  looked  at  her  with  strong  marks  of  pity  on  her  face,  and 
waited  until  the  first  burst  of  feeling  had  subsided. 

"  Sometimes  power  over  our  money  is  the  same  thing  as 
power  over  our  persons ;  and  so  it  is  in  your  case,  Louise 
Lovelace,  for  what  could  you  do  without  money  ?" 

"I  can  work;  and  that  is  what  I  intend  to  do.  If  you 
have  overheard  what  I  said  to  Benry  Thornton,  you  must 
have  learned  that  I  intend  to  get  away  from  all  who  know 
me ;  and  I  shall  do  it.  I  shall  go  down  at  once  among  poor 
people ;  I  shall  let  myself  out  for  wages,  and  then  no  one  will 
know  me ;  no  one  will  care  who  were  my  parents.  I  shall 
hear  no  whisperings  about  who  I  am,  and  where  I  am  from. 
I  shall  not  be  shunned  by  those  who  feel  themselves  high  in 
life,  and  fear  I  may  not  be  properly  their  equal.  Let  them 
keep  the  property,  and  guard  it  .is  much  as  they  please ;  it 
can  never  do  me  any  good  ;  it  can  never  shield  me  from  cruel 
hints,  and  surmises,  and  guesses,  ai.  d  shrugging  of  the  shoul 
ders,  and  such  torment  of  heart  as  no  poor  young  creature 
ever  suffered  before.  Oh,  that  I  was  dead,  or  had  never  been 
born."  And  Louise  again  gave  vent  to  tears. 

"  The  last  wish  is  better  than  the  first  one ;  I  suppose  it 
ain't  wrong  to  wish  we  had  never  been  born  ;  if  it  is,  I  do 
wrong  most  every  day.  But  you  don't  know  the  world, 
Louise  Lovelace  ;  you  don't  know  what  a  dreadful  thing  it 
would  be  for  you,  a  poor  young  thing,  to  be  away  off  among 
strangers  and  with  no  money  to  help  yourself.  But,  letting 

3 


50  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

that  go,  you  would  not  wish  to  see  Henry  Thornton  put  to 
trouble  for  your  sake." 

"No,  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  be  the  means  of  putting 
any  more  burden  upon  him  than  he  has  already;  and  I  think 
it  would  be  very  unkind  in  you,  Caroline,  to  tell  what  you 
overheard  while  listening  to  our  plans  ;  and  more  than  that,  it 
was  no  plan  of  Henry's  ;  he  only  assented  to  do  what  he  could 
to  aid  me." 

"  It  would  not  be  kind  in  me  to  allow  you  to  run  yourself 
into  such  trouble  as  you  have  been  laying  out  for;  and  now, 
if  you  don't  give  me  your  word  of  promise  that  you  will  give 
up  your  plan  of  going  away,  and  that  you  will  be  a  good  girl, 
and  go  home  and  put  these  strange  notions  out  of  your  head, 
I  shall  use  means  to  stop  it,  anyhow." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  an 
approaching  vehicle,  and  to  the  utter  consternation  of  both 
parties,  the  gig  of  Esquire  Thompson,  which  had  been  hidden 
from  their  view  by  the  intervention  of  the  rising  ground  at 
the  foot  of  which  they  were  standing,  was  seen  approaching  ; 
he  was  just  returning  home  after  an  absence  of  some 
days. 

Louise  was  disturbed  because,  with  all  the  impetuosity  of 
her  nature  and  her  determined  will,  she  had  a  fear  of  the 
man  who  for  some  years  held  her  in  rigid  subjection.  She 
had  been  weeping,  and  the  marks  she  knew  could  not  be  at 
once  effaced,  and  she  also  knew  that  he  had  a  dislike  of  Caro 
line,  and  had  expressed  a  wish  that  Louise  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  her.  Caroline  was  also  aware  of  his  feel 
ings  towards  herself,  and  as  he  was  a  man  whom  many  feared 
and  few  loved,  she  could  not  but  be  somewhat  affected  by  his 
Appearance  under  the  circumstances. 

Louise  at  once  prepared  to  mount,  and,  with  the  assistance 
-»f  Caroline,  was  just  settled  upon  her  saddle  when  the  squire 
eame  up. 

He  was  a  large  man,  with  bushy  hair  and  dark  thick 
whiskers,  keen  grey  eyes  and  heavy  overhanging  eyebrows, 
which,  with  a  scowl  upon  his  brow,  made  altogether  a  severe 
countenance.  Louise  did  not  smile  as  she  saluted  him  ;  she 
never  did.  He  had  become  very  disagreeable  to  her,  and 
she  would  not  express  feelings  she  did  not  possess. 

"  Why  is  this,  Louise?     I  thought  you  had  already  known 


ALONE   ON  A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  51 

ray  will  in  reference  to  that  woman  ?  I  wish  no  one  of  ray 
family  to  hold  converse  with  such  a  vagrant." 

Louise  looked  steadily  at  him,  but  had  no  time  to  reply, 
for  Caroline  at  once  advanced  towards  the  gig. 

''I  may  be  a  vagrant,  Esquire  Thompson,  in  your  estima 
tion,  because  I  live  in  a  hovel,  and  do  what  I  can  to  sustain 
myself  there.  But  I  am  never  beholding  to  you  or  yours ; 
and  as  to  my  speaking  to  those  who  come  across  my  path, 
be  they  yours  or  yourself  even,  there  is  no  law  against  that, 
as  I  ever  heard  of,  if  I  only  speak  civilly." 

Not  deigning  a  reply,  and  only  answering  her  by  a  shake 
of  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  will  see  to  you,"  he  again 
addressed  Louise — 

"  You  are  through,  I  suppose  ?  Please  gallop  on  towards 
home." 

Louise  had  lost  the  fear  which  for  a  moment  possessed  her, 
and  answered  in  a  quiet,  though  distinct  and  audible  tone — 

"  I  am  not  quite  ready,  sir ;  I  will  be  home  in  a  few  mo 
ments." 

Without  another  word,  he  drew  his  whip  and  laid  it  heavily 
on  her  pony.  The  little  creature,  spirited  and  totally  un 
used  to  such  treatment,  gave  a  furious  bound,  and  before 
Louise  could  gather  up  the  reins,  her  balance  was  lost  and 
the  poor  girl  thrown  heavily  to  the  ground. 

Caroline  made  no  exclamation,  but  flew  in  an  instant  to 
her,  and  sitting  down,  gently  raised  the  body  of  the  prostrate 
girl  and  supported  her  against  her  own  breast ;  at  the  same 
time  rubbing  her  temples  and  speaking  in  very  soft  soothing 
tones — 

"  Where  are  you  hurt,  my  darling  ?  where  are  you  hurt  ? — 
tell  me,  tell  me !" 

But  there  was  no  reply ;  and  the  death-like  pallor  of  that 
face,  where  the  rich  blood  was  always  so  freely  playing,  and 
the  perfect  stillness  of  every  muscle  and  the  dead  weight 
which  she  felt  her  arms  were  sustaining,  caused  her  to  suspect 
at  once  that  life  had  fled. 

"  Ob,  you  have  murdered  her !  you  have  murdered  her ! 
and  I  will  be  a  witness  against  you  before  man  and  before 

God!  You  have  murdered  the  poor  innocent,  father 

helpless  child,  and  they  shall  know  it  to  whom  she  belongs 
if  I  have  to  die  for  it  the  next  moment  !M 


52  TBTJE   TO   THE   LAST  |    OK, 

The  gentleman  made  no  reply,  for  lie  was  too  givatiy  ;;;;•'- 
tated  at  the  result  of  his  passionate  and  shameful  act,  to 
attend  to  aught  else  besides  watching  with  intense  interest 
the  pale  features  of  the  lovely  girl,  who  was  lying  helpless  in 
the  arms  of  the  woman. 

He  had  at  the  instant  reined  his  horse  to  the  fence,  and 
springing  from  his  gig,  stood  with  one  knee  upon  the  ground, 
feeling  the  pulse,  to  see  if  life  still  remained,  and  when 
assured  of  that,  trying  to  ascertain  whether  any  of  her  limbs 
were  fractured. 

He  was  deadly  pale  and  a  tremor  shook  his  whole  frame. 
His  anger  was  changed  for  guilty  apprehension. 

"  Feel  her  lower  limbs  and  see  if  anything  is  broken." 

Caroline  did  as  she  was  bidden,  and  on  pressing  the  ankle, 
a  slight  groan  escaped  the  sufferer. 

"It's  there,"  she  said,  "and  it's  a  swelling;  but  her  head 
must  be  hurt  too,  for  she  fell  right  on  the  back  of  it,  and  the 
ground  so  stony,  too.  Yes,  here  it  is !  I  knew  it  must  be — 
you  poor  dear  creature !  you've  been  shamefully  treated  ;  but 
this  shan't  be  the  end  of  it.  You  ain't  so  alone  in  the  world 
as  you  think  for." 

The  squire  seemed  about  to  reply ;  but,  as  if  he  thought 
best  to  say  nothing  that  might  aggravate  matters  as  he  was 
then  situated,  asked  in  a  milder  tone  than  he  had  yet 
used — 

"  Can  we  get  her  into  the  carriage,  do  you  suppose  ?" 

"  The  best  thing  we  can  do  is  to  get  her  to  a  soft  bed  as 
soon  as  may  be.  My  poor  shelter  is  not  far  off.  It  is  clean, 
and  my  bed  is  easy  and  clean  too.  And  then  the  sooner  you 
drive  off  and  get  the  doctor  the  better ;  she  might  die  before 
she  could  reach  her  home.  It  is  all  of  three  miles,  or 
more." 

As  this  did,  under  all  the  circumstances,  appear  to  be  the 
better  course,  the  gentleman  at  once  prepared  to  follow  it. 
With  the  tenderest  care  they  raised  her  in  their  arms  and 
walked  through  the  cedars  towards  the  abode  of  Caroline. 
It  was,  as  she  said,  not  far  off.  There  was  a  gentle  descent 
from  the  road,  and  then  a  winding  path,  skirting  a  ravine,  in 
which  a  streamlet  could  be  seen  through  the  branches,  glid'ng 
along  its  rocky  bed.  Following  this  path  for  some  rods,  a 
fine  spring  lay  before  them,  and  close  at  hand  stood  the  little 


ALONE   ON   A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  53 

shanty.  It  was  a  rude  structure  of  boards,  but  everything 
around  it  had  a  pleasant  look.  Morning-glories  nearly 
covered  one  side  of  the  building,  and  the  branches  of  a  large 
hemlock  made  a  beautiful  screen  in  front,  besides  affording 
an  agreeable  shade,  where  Caroline  no  doubt  spent  much  of 
her  time  in  favorable  weather. 

The  inside  of  the  house  was  clean,  as  Caroline  had  said, 
and  white  as  the  snow-drifts  were  the  pillow  and  sheets  upon 
which  they  laid  the  helpless  girl. 

Caroline  at  once  began  to  use  such  simple  restoratives  as 
her  establishment  afforded,  and,  woman-like,  seemed  to  know 
just  what  to  do,  and  how  to  do ;  while  the  squire,  with  a  sadder 
heart  than  he  had  ever  known  before,  hastened  away  to  pro 
cure  medical  aid.  The  injury  which  he  had  inflicted  by  his 
rashness  might  lead  to  very  serious  consequences,  and  even  if 
the  child  should  recover,  if  the  circumstances  became  known,  a 
violent  prejudice  would  be  excited  against  him  in  the  public 
mind.  All  this  made  him  very  uncomfortable,  in  addition  to 
what  we  may  suppose  were  his  feelings  in  reference  to 
Louise.  He  was  not  a  hard-hearted  man,  he  would  not 
intentionally  have  put  her  to  any  risk  of  life  or  limb;  but 
unused  to  having  his  will  questioned  by  any  member  of  his 
family,  and  possessed  of  strong  passions,  he  for  the  moment 
lost  the  due  control  of  his  reason  and  judgment.  He  was 
also  somewhat  disturbed  by  what  Caroline  had  said  in  the 
excitement  of  the  moment.  He  had  for  some  time,  from 
various  circumstances,  had  his  suspicions  aroused  as  to  her 
knowledge  of  the  parentage  of  Louise,  and  should  it  be  as 
Caroline  had  intimated,  that  she  had  powerful  friends,  it 
might  materially  interfere  with  his  present  arbitrary  right  to 
the  disposition  of  her  property.  It  was  large,  and  being  an 
enterprising  man,  he  had.  many  ways  and  means  of  making  it 
subserve  his  own  interests.  Whatever  were  his  reasons,  how 
ever,  he  had  taken  a  dislike  to  the  woman,  and  would  have 
adopted  measures  to  drive  her  away  if  he  could  have  found  a 
fair  pretence  for  so  doing.  But  Caroline,  although  at  times 
strange  in  her  conduct  and  singular  in  her  habits  and  mode 
of  lite,  had  made  herself  popular  with  old  and  young.  Her 
countenance  was  prepossessing;  her  treatment  of  all  who 
came  to  her  little  lodge  was  kind,  and  especially  so  to  the 
young,  who  often,  on  afternoon  holidays,  made  excursions  to 


54:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OR, 

visit  her.  She  was  also  a  neat  seamstress,  and  could  sew  and 
darn  more  beautifully  than  any  one  in  that  vicinity.  By 
these  means  she  lived,  and  all  who  needed  such  work  to  be 
d».ne,  were  glad  to  give  it  out  to  her.  She  was  prompt  to 
the  promised  time,  and  her  charge  always  reasonable. 
Caroline  would  have  been  missed,  and  Esquire  Thompson 
knew  all  this ;  but  he  now  resolved  to  use  what  power  he  had 
to  make  her  stay  in  that  vicinity  uncomfortable. 

Caroline's  simple  expedients  soon  had  the  effect  of  restor 
ing  consciousness  in  some  degree  to  the  poor  girl.  There  was 
first  a  deep  sigh,  and  then  a  gentle  "  Oh  dear  !"  escaped  her 
lips,  and  these  tokens  stimulated  the  efforts  of  the  kind- 
hearted  woman. 

At  length,  the  bright  eyes  of  Louise  were  gazing  in  wonder 
at  the  motions  of  her  attendant,  and  looking  around  the 
room  as  though  trying  to  find  out  where  she  was. 

"  Caroline !" 

"Oh  dear !  I  am  so  glad  you  know  me  !" 

"  Caroline,  where  am  I  ?  what  ails  me  f" 

"  Oh  dear,  you've  been  hurt !  But  keep  quiet ;  all  will  be 
well  yet,  I'm  hoping.  Can  you  tell  me,  dear,  where  it  hurts 
you  the  most?" 

"  Nothing  hurts  me.  Oh,  don't!"  Caroline  had  just  then 
pressed  her  ankle  as  she  was  bathing  it. 

"  I  won't,  dear.  I  won't  press  it  again ;  but  it  swells 
fast." 

"  Caroline,  where  am  T  ?     Did  I  fall  ?" 

"  Oh  dear,  yes !  Don't  you  remember  how  that  wicked 
man  struck  your  pony  ?  But  he  will  rue  the  day  yet !  You 
are  here,  darling,  in  the  hut  of  the  vagrant  as  he  calls  me. 
Don't  you  remember  it  ?  you've  been  here  many  a  time 
before  now.  But  here  they  come." 

It  was  not,  however,  as ,  Caroline  supposed.  For  as  she 
looked  out  she  at  once  stepped  from  the  house. 

"  Good  morning,  Caroline  !" 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  cannot  see  you  now  ;  there  is  a  poor  girl  been 
hurt  and  she  is  lying  in  there,  and  I  hav'n't  a  minute  to 
spare.  I  came  out  to  meet  you  because  you  are,  may-be,  a 
stranger  to  her,  and  I  feared  it  might  trouble  her.  But,  per 
haps  you  do  know  her :  it's  Louise  Lovelace,  the — the  niece 
of  Esquire  Thompson.  The  squire  is  gone  for  the  doctor, 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   PEA.  55 

and  first,  when  I  heard  your  step,  I  thought  it  was  them ; 
but  I  might  have  known  they  couldn't  have  got  back  yet.  But, 
may  be,  you  had  better  come  in  and  see  her." 

The  gentleman,  without  hesitation,  walked  in.  He  knew 
Louise,  and  perhaps  felt  that  Caroline  was  not  the  most 
proper  person  to  be  left  alone  with  one  who  had  been  injured 
so  as  to  require  medical  aid. 

There  was  certainly  a  brighter  cast  to  the  countenance  of 
Louise  as  she  recognized  the  person  who  followed  Caroline 
into  the  room. 

The  gentleman  was  tall  of  stature,  with  a  radiant  counte 
nance.  It  was  smooth,  fair,  rather  pale,  but  of  a  healthy 
look  and  an  expression  of  great  mildness ;  just  such  a  counte 
nance  as  one  in  pain,  or  sickness,  or  with  sorrow  at  the  heart, 
would  like  to  look  upon.  As  he  addressed  Louise,  there  was 
no  affected  softening  of  the  voice ;  no  whining  tones,  as 
though  the  speaker  was  intensely  sympathizing  with  the 
sufferer.  His  words  came  out  clear  and  manly,  although 
far  removed  from  harshness,  and  not  loud.  His  manner  was 
highly  calculated  to  inspire  the  invalid  with  confidence ;  it 
was  so  free  from  any  unnatural  studied  effort.  And 
that  Louise  was  thus  affected,  her  appearance  soon  mani 
fested. 

He  felt  the  injured  ankle,  and  pronounced  confidently  that 
no  bone  had  been  broken.  It  was  merely  sprained,  although 
he  said  it  might  be  some  time  before  she  would  be  able  to 
use  her  limb.  The  swelling  on  the  head  indicated  a  hard 
blow,  but  he  thought  it  might  soon  be  reduced  by  cold  appli 
cations  or  leeches. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  your  accident,  my  child,  and  would  gladly 
stay  longer,  if  I  could  in  any  way  be  of  service  to  you.  But 
your  uncle  will  soon  be  here  with  the  physician,  and  I  see 
that  Caroline  is  doing  what  seems  to  be  proper." 

"  Can  you  not  stay,  Mr.  Veruon  ?"  said  Louise,  looking  at 
him  very  earnestly. 

"If  I  thought  I  could  be  of  any  service  to  you,  I  would 
stay  certainly  ;  or,  if  you  desire  it." 

"  I  do  desire  it." 

"  Well,  I  will  remain  with  you  until  your  uncle  comes  with 
the  doctor." 

"  Can  you  not  remain  after  they  come  ?" 


56  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

"A  slight  flush  passed  over  the  gentleman's  face,  and  a 
moment  he  hesitated  to  reply — 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  can  remain  ;  but  it  will  scarcely  be  necessary." 
And  then  smiling — "  You  know,  too  many  doctors  are  quite 
as  bad  as  too  many  cooks." 

"  But  you  are  not  a  doctor." 

"  Oh,  no !  but  enough  of  one  to  predict  that  you  are  not 
seriously  hurt." 

"  It  is  not  for  that  I  wish  you  to  stay,  Mr.  Vernon" 

If  Louise  was  intending  to  say  what  she  did  want  of 
him,  there  was  no  time  then,  for  her  uncle  and  his  attendant 
were  heard  approaching  with  rapid  steps  along  the  little 
path. 

There  was  no  manifestation  of  any  unpleasant  surprise  on 
the  part  of  the  gentleman  who  stood  beside  the  bed,  and  was 
just  then  holding  the  hand  of  Louise ;  she  having  grasped 
his  in  her  eagerness  to  have  him  stay. 

But  it  was  impossible  for  the  squire  to  conceal  the  chagrin 
or  displeasure  which  he  felt ;  and  as  his  first  glance  at  Louise 
encouraged  him  to  hope  that  she  was  not  so  much  injured  as 
he  had  feared,  one  cause  of  his  uneasiness  was  removed,  or 
greatly  lessened ;  he  was,  therefore,  somewhat  elated.  He 
hardly  noticed  the  gentleman,  obtruded  rather  rudely  by 
his  side,  asking  her  questions  and  communicating  with  the 
doctor,  and  manifesting  that  deep  interest  which,  as  her 
uncle  and  guardian,  he  would  of  course  be  expected  to 
feel. 

Mr.  Vernon — for  we  may  as  well  call  him  by  his  name — 
very  quietly  relinquished  his  position.  He  had  politely 
accosted  the  squire  as  he  entered,  and  had  shaken  hands  with 
the  doctor,  who  met  him  with  much  cordiality  ;  and  he  would 
at  once  have  taken  leave,  but  for  his  promise  to  Louise.  He 
saw,  likewise,  that  she  was  watching  his  motions  as  he  stood 
near  the  door,  and  expressing,  as  much  as  she  could  by  looks, 
her  desire  that  he  should  remain.  He  had  no  intention  of 
leaving,  however,  and  although  he  plainly  perceived  that  his 
presence  was  not  agreeable  to  the  squire,  he  was  not  a  man 
to  be  easily  turned  aside  from  whatever  course  he  thought  at 
the  time  the  right  one. 

The  result  of  the  doctor's  examination  confirmed  all  that 
Mr.  Vernon  had  told  Louise ;  and  fully  satisfied  that  he  was 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  57 

correct   in    his   opinion,  the   doctor   turned  to  Mr.  Thomp 
son  : 

"Perhaps  a  few  hours'  repose  would  be  best,  and  then,  I 
think,  towards  evening,  squire,  she  could  be  easily  removed 
to  her  home." 

"  Why  not  at  once,  doctor  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  absolutely  necessary,  I  suppose  she  might; 
but  a  little  rest,  and  perhaps  a  nap,  might  refresh  her  so  that 
she  would  feel  more  like  being  moved  ?  What  say  you,  my 
dear  ?"  addressing  Louise. 

"  I  think  I  cannot  go  now." 

"  Just  so  ;  you  would  like  to  rest  awhile.  What  do  you 
say,  Mr.  Vernon  ?  You  are  a  pretty  good  nurse." 

"I  should  rather  incline  to  your  opinion,  doctor  ;  although 
I  suppose  her  uncle  is  anxious  to  have  her  under  the  care  of 
friends  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  opinion  of  neither  of  these  gentlemen  would  have 
availed  anything  against  the  will  of  Esquire  Thompson,  if  he 
had  not  feared  an  obstinate  resistance  on  the  part  of  Louise. 
The  calm,  yet  decided  manner  in  which  she  said  "  she  could 
not  go,"  assured  him  that  there  would  be  great  reluctance  on 
her  part,  and  he  wished,  if  possible,  to  heal  the  breach  already 
made.  A  little  yielding  on  his  part,  and  a  few  kind  words, 
he  thought,  would  accomplish  that.  So  he  appeared  to  ac 
quiesce  quite  pleasantly,  bade  her  cheer  up,  said  she  would 
soon  be  better,  and  smiling,  added — 

"  The  next  time  you  must  keep  a  tighter  rein  upon  your 
pony;"  and  then,  turning  to  Mr.  Vernon:  "I  suppose  it  will 
be  best  for  us  all  to  leave  her  now,  under  the  care  of  Caro 
line,  who  seems  to  be  a  good  nurse." 

Mr.  Vernon  did  not  take  the  hint,  however  ;  he  had  pro 
mised  Louise  to  remain  :  for  what  reason  she  wished  it,  he 
knew  not ;  having  nothing  to  conceal  himself,  he  never 
wished  to  encourage  concealment  on  the  part  of  others,  es 
pecially  in  one  situated  as  Louise  was  towards  her  uncle.  So 
stepping  up  to  the  side  of  the  bed  on  which  she  lay — 

"  You  hear  what  your  uncle  wishes,  Miss  Louise  ?  That 
we  should  all  leave  you.  You  expressed  a  wish  that  I  should 
remain,  and  therefore  I  have  done  so.  Had  you  not  better 
assent  to  the  proposition,  that  you  be  left  in  quiet,  in  order 
to  get  rest,  preparatory  to  your  removal  2" 

3* 


58  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

"  After  1  have  seen  you  alone." 

Indignant  as  the  squire  was,  he  thought  it  best  to  say 
nothing  then,  and  with  no  very  comfortable  feelings,  left  the 
cabin,  inwardly  resolving  that  things  should  not  thus  long 
remain. 


CHAPTER   V. 

THE  funeral  ceremonies  are  over.  Henry  has  stood  by  the 
open  grave,  and  has  seen  the  coffin  lowered  into  its  narrow 
house ;  and  when  the  mourning  family  of  Mr.  Langstaff  filed 
ott'  through  the  narrow  path  of  the  churchyard,  he  remained 
and  watched  the  laborers  as  they  shovelled  in  the  dust  with 
which  the  sacred  relics  were  in  time  to  mingle.  The  grave 
is  filled  up,  the  little  mound  above  covered  with  greensward, 
and  then  the  men  depart — their  task  accomplished  ;  and  now 
he  is  alone.  Alone,  except  his  good  old  friends,  the  Mal 
colms  ;  but  he  can  weep  before  them ;  they  can  weep  too — 
not  so  much  for  the  dead  as  for  the  living — for  they  have  feel 
ing  hearts,  and  they  think  of  that  lone  boy  by  the  grave  of 
his  mother,  and  his  last  earthly  relative. 

And  then  they  take  him  by  the  hand,  and  silently  walk  on 
their  quiet  way  to  the  mill ;  and  when  in  their  humble  home, 
he  is  made  to  feel  that  he  is  welcome ;  and  they  try  to  cheer 
his  heart,  and  to  throw  little  streaks  of  sunshine,  so  far  as 
they  are  able,  upon  the  dark  cloud  that  has  gathered  over  him. 

The  evening  had  come.  The  mill  had  done  its  work  for 
the  day,  and  Mr.  Malcolm  had  taken  his  seat  on  the  broad, 
low  piazza  which  ran  in  front  of  his  dwelling.  His  pipe,  the 
constant  companion  of  his  leisure  hours,  was  throwing  off  its 
wreath  of  smoke ;  while  his  good  old  partner,  with  her  knit 
ting  still  in  hand,  sat  within  speaking  distance,  but  far  enough 
off  to  be  out  of  reach  of  the  tobacco  fumes.  '*  She  did  not 
fancy  tobacco,"  she  said,  "in  no  way." 

Henry  took  a  chair  between  them,  and  for  a  time  the  little 
company  seemed  to  be  absorbed  each  in  his  and  her  own 
thoughts. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,  sonny,"  said  Mr.  Malcolm,  address 
ing  Henry,  "  a  good  deal,  since  you  told  me  all  about  your 
situation.  It  ain't  in  no  wise  right,  as  I  view  it,  that  you 
should  be  thrown  clean  out  of  all  your  mother  had.  That 
man  must  have  got  a  pretty  little  property  by  her  !  It's 
a  thousand  pities  she  hadn't  fixed  things  a  little  afore  she 


60  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

married  him  !  But  women,  in  general,  don't,  think  enough 
about  such  things.  They  seem  to  think  men  are  angels,  and 
can't  do  them  no  wrong,  any  how." 

"  You  hadn't  ought  to  blame  them  for  that,  pa :"  Mrs.  Mal 
colm  always  gave  this  title  to  her  husband. 

"  I  don't  blame  them  ;  but  they  are  to  be  pitied — they  are 
so  dreadfully  took  in  sometimes." 

"  Men  ought  to  know  better.  Women,  in  general,  don't 
like  to  be  bargaining  with  a  man  they  are  going  to  marry. 
They  think  he  means  all  he  says,  and  they  don't  want  to  have 
him  suppose  that  thev  are  afraid  he  will  not  be  as  good  as  his 
word." 

"I  suppose  that  is  so,  mammy;  but  it's  a  pity,  if  it  is  so, 
that  they  should  Be  so  took  in  as  they  be !  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  it  has  been  on  my  mind  a  good  deal  about  our  boy 
here.  He  is  too  young  to  be  flung  off,  all  living  alone  upon 
the  world ;  and  then,  too,  he  has  been  brought  up  delicate 
like." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Malcolm,  I  do  not  feel  delicate,  I  assure  you ;  I 
am  strong  enough  to  work  ;  I  have  done  as  much  work,  this 
past  year,  as  the  best  of  them  of  my  age." 

"  You  don't,  though !  He  didn't  put  you  to  rough  and 
tumble  ?" 

"  I  did  everything  that  the  rest  did.  Oh,  sir  !  I  don't  wish 
you  to  think  I  cannot  work,  or  that  I  shrink  from  work;  I 
can  do  anything  in  that  way  that  one  of  my  age  can." 

"  Glad  to  hear  you  say  so ;  that's  half  the  battle,  already. 
You  have  got  the  spunk,  I  see,  and  that  will  go  a  good  ways, 
Henry ;  I  tell  you,  it  will." 

"  That  may  be,  pa,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm,  resting  her  hands 
a  moment  upon  her  lap ;  "  but  there's  many  kinds  of  work, 
and  I  guess  the  child  wants  to  know  which  he  had  better 
go  at.  Farming,  you  know,  is  a  good  business — good  enough 
for  anybody,  and  a  safe  one,  too  ;  but  then  a  body  wAnts  to 
have  some  little  property  to  start  on.  If  he  had  a  father, 
now,  who  could  help  him,  when  come  of  age,  to  buy  a  little 
land,  and  give  him  a  little  setting  out ;  or  if  there  was  any 
thing  a-coming  to  him  when  he  was  twenty-one;  that  he 
might  go  and  buy  a  place  with,  even  if  he  did  not  pay  for 
it  all  at  once — that  might  do  ;  but,  you  see,  he  ain't  got 
nothing." 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  61 

"You  are  right,  mammy,"  and  then  turning  to  Henry  — 
"  You  see  what  she  says  about  fanning  is  true  enough.  A 
body  wants  something  to  start  on.  It  is  a  plaguy  hard  tug 
ging,  when  you  have  to  begin,  after  you  come  of  age,  to  go 
and  work  out  by  the  month,  and  save,  may  be,  a  hundred 
dollars  a  year.  It  takes  a  good  many  years  to  get  enough 
together  to  make  a  start  on !  But  some  do  it,  though.  It 
wants  a  good  constitution  to  stand  the  racket.  You  see, 
working  out  for  wages,  is  clear  another  thing  from  working 
for  yourself.  To  earn  your  wages,  you've  got  to  go  from  sun 
rise  to  sunset,  and  no  '  Whoa'  without  it  rains,  and  then,  if  he's 
a  tight  man,  he'll  find  something  or  another  to  do." 

"  I  have  thought  of  all  that,  Mr.  Malcolm,  and  therefore  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  shall  stand  a  better  chance  in  the  city  than 
in  the  country,  if  I  can  only  get  a  place  there." 

"  You  ain't  no  acquaintance,  nor  nothing,  there  1" 

"  No,  sir." 

41  Then  that's  a  pity,  too !  It's  plaguy  hard,  working  one's 
way  alone  so,  without  some  one  to  boost  a  little  at  the  start 
ing.  A  body  wants  some  one  in  the  city  that  is  knowing  to 
all  the  crooks  and  turns  there,  or  he's  like  to  fare  hard." 

"  You  tell  him,  pa,  what  you  know  about  things  there." 

"  Were  you  ever  there,  Mr.  Malcolm  ?" 

"  Not  long." 

"  In  business  ?" 

"  Well,  a  little,  just  to  say  I  was ;  that's  all.  I  soon  got 
enough  on  it ;  it  had  like  to  have  swamped  me.  My  expe 
rience  ain't  of  much  consequence,  no  how,  only  for  this — I 
can  say  as  much  as  this :  A  man  who  goes  there,  if  he  has 
got  any  bait  about  him,  will  have  more  fish  a  nibbling  around 
him  than  he  cares  to  catch." 

As  Henry  looked  very  earnestly  at  Mr.  Malcolm,  the  old 
gentleman  was  constrained,  though  apparently  much  against 
his  will,  to  go  on  and  explain  matters. 

"You  see,  my  boy,  money  is  the  great  thing  in  the  city; 
if  a  man  ain't  got  any,  or  no  way  of  getting  it,  he  can't  stay 
there  long,  that's  certain ;  and  if  he  has,  there  are  so  many 
critters  there  a  living  by  their  wits,  as  they  call  it,  that  one 
has  to  keep  a  plaguy  sharp  lookout  or  he  is  bamboozled  in 
less  than  no  time ;  that's  my  experience  and  it  cost  me  five 
hundred  dollars  to  get  it." 


62  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OR, 

"But  pa,  you  wasn't  acquainted  with  the  ways  there." 
"You  see,  Henry,  when  I  was  come  of  age,  and  began  to 
think  of  settling  down  at  some  trade  or  other  for  life,  my 
father  wanted  me  to  keep  on  jogging  after  the  old  hoppers ; 
but  I  had  no  notion  to  it,  I  thought  there  was  better  business 
a  going  somewhere  else ;  at  any  rate,  I  wanted  to  try. 

"  Well,  my  father  was  pretty  forehanded  in  those  days,  so 
he  gets  together  a  thousand  dollars  and  off  T  goes.     Good 
bye  to  the  old  mill ;  mean  to  be  a  rich  man  and  live  as  well 
as  the  best  of  'em.     So  I  made  tracks  for  York.    I  knew  some 
young  fellows  there  and  they  soon  made  me  acquainted  with 
more,  so  that  I  was  at  no  time  at  a  loss  for  company.     That 
was  all  well  enough  as  far  as  it  went,  but  it  wasn't  a  helping 
me  on  any  in  the  business  I  went  there  to  do." 
"What  business  had  you  learned,  Mr.  Malcolm  ?" 
"Milling !  that's  what  I  had  learned,  and  nothing  else." 
"  Oh,  sir,  I  ask  your  pardon  ;  I  thought  you  went  to  the 
city  to  go  into  some  particular  business." 

"Nothing  particular;  I  thought  from  what  I  heard  folks 
say,  that  it  would  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  a  man 
to  make  money  there,  if  he  only  had  a  little  capital  to  work 
with ;  and  so  I  thought  I  would  try  my  luck  with  the  rest. 
So  down  I  went,  and  there  I  staid,  week  after  week,  looking 
out  for  something  to  take  hold  on,  but  couldn't  see  anything 
that  looked  reasonable.  Well,  one  day  as  I  was  going  along 
the  street,  I  saw  a  red  flag  out  and  people  going  into  the 
place ;  so  in  I  goes,  too ;  I  soon  found  out  what  was  going  on  : 
it  was  a  vendue.  It  seems  a  man  had  failed,  or  so  they  said, 
and  all  the  things  were  to  be  sold  whether  or  no.  Thought 
I,  here's  a  chance.  There  was  chairs,  and  sofas,  and  tables 
and  carpets,  and  what  not,  and  all  seemed  bran  new,  and  so 
they  was.  Well,  they  began.  The  man  with  a  little  ham 
mer  in  his  hand  kept  his  tongue  a-going  faster  than  any  mill 
clapper.  Things,  he  said,  was  going  at  a  shameful  price,  not 
half  the  cost  and  some  not  a  quarter.  But,  says  he,  '  I  shall 
Kell  them,  bring  what  they  may.'  All  to  once  it  struck  me,  if 
it  was  as  he  said,  and  he  seemed  to  speak  truth,  he  was  so  in 
earnest,  it  might  be  a  chance  forme  to  do  something.  So  at 
it  I  goes,  and  when  once  I  got  a-going  my  blood  began  to 
get  up,  and  when  they  bid  against  me  I'd  bid  back  again  ;  if 
they  were  cheap  for  them,  they  were  cheap  for  me.  Well, 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  63 

after  a  while  they  got  through.  Them  that  hadn't  bought 
anything  went  out,  and  them  that  had  walked  up  to  the  desk 
to  get  their  bills,  and  pay  the  shot. 

" '  You've  made  a  great  bargain  to-day,  sir,'  said  the  man 
with  the-  little  hammer. 

"  '  Glad  to  hear  it,'  says  I ;  '  it's  what  I've  been  looking  for 
some  time.' 

"  So  he  handed  me  my  bill ;  it  come  to  over  four  hundred 
dollars.  Well,  I  up  and  paid  it,  and  he  thanked  me,  and 
bowed  very  politely  ;  and  then  he  said,  will  you  send  for  the 
things  this  afternoon,  or  shall  we  send  them  to  your  place  of 
business  ?  AH  to  once  I  see  I'd  been  too  fast ;  I'd  gone  and 
got  a  heap  of  things  and  no  mortal  place  where  to  put  'em. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  So  says  I,  '  can't  you  let  them  be  where 
they  are  for  a  day  or  so,  just  to  give  me  a  chance  to  dispose 
of 'em?' 

" '  Not  very  conveniently,'  said  he, '  for  we  shall  have  another 
auction  here  to-morrow,  of  the  same  kind  of  goods,  and  these 
things  will  be  in  the  way.' 

"  '  Oh,'  said  I,  '  I  thought  the  folks  had  failed  here.' 

"  '  Oh  no,'  said  he,  laughing,  '  we  have  not  failed,  but  the 
owner  of  the  goods  you  bought ;  if  it  will  be  any  convenience, 
however,  to  you  to  keep  them  here,  until  to-morrow  or  next 
day,  you  can  do  so.' 

"'Thank  you,  sir,'  said  I,  and  off  I  goes.  First  I  called  on 
all  the  folks  that  sold  cabinet  ware ;  but  there  wasn't  one  of 
'em  would  even  go  to  look  at  the  goods,  and  what  was  worse 
than  all,  one  of  them,  who  seemed  to  be  a  clever  sort  of  a  man, 
told  me  some  things  that  made  me  feel  rather  oneasy  ;  says 
he,  '  you  bought  that  furniture  at  auction  ?' 

"  '  I  did  so  ;  a  man  had  failed  and  they  had  to  be  sold.  I 
see  he  smiled  when  I  told  him  that,  and  then  he  says, '  Friend, 
the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  let  the  man  you  bought  them 
of  sell  them  again  at  auction  on  your  account ;  the  goods 
are  only  fit  to  be  sold  in  that  way,  they  were  made  expressly 
for  it.'  '  Thank  you,'  said  I,  '  I  guess  I  will  take  your  advice,' 
and  so  I  did  ;  they  were  sold,  and  two  hundred  dollars  went 
for  that  job.  Well,  thinks  I,  this  ain't  making  headway  very 
fast ;  I  guess  I  will  see  what  I've  got,  and  make  tracks  back 
again  to  the  old  mill,  when,  as  luck  would  have  it,  a  fellow 
that  I  had  got  acquainted  with,  met  me  in  the  street  and  says 


64:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

he,  '  Malcolm,  I've  a  grand  chance  to  make  a  fortune  now,  if 
I  could  find  a  fellow  who  had  five  hundred  dollars,  and  who 
would  join  me.' 

"  '  What's  the  business  ?'  says  I. 

"  '  The  liquor  business.' 

"  Liquor  business  !  Well,  I  didn't  like  the  name  of  it  very 
much,  but  thinks  I,  though  I  never  drink  any  myself,  other 
folks  do  and  will,  and  I  may  as  well  make  a  fortune  out  of  it 
as  any  one";  sol  says — I'm  your  chap.  'Done,'  says  he;  and 
then  he  went  on  to  tell  what  a  glorious  stand  he  could  get, 
and  all  that.  '  Get  it  then,'  says  I, '  and  let's  be  a  doing  some 
thing,  for  what  with  one  thing,  and  what  with  another,  I  ain't 
a  gaining  ground  very  fast.'  Well,  he  took  me  to  the  stand, 
as  he  called  it,  hired  it,  went  to  work  painting,  and  fixing, 
and  making  things  look  as  nice  as  a  new  fiddle ;  it  took  a 
deal  of  money  though  to  do  that,  and  sometimes  I  was  afeared 
there  would  be  nothing  left  but  the  fixings  to  start  on. 

"  But  after  a  while  we  got  all  rigged  up,  kegs  painted  and 
lettered,  glasses  and  decanters  all  shining  behind  the  counter, 
and  we  opened  shop,  and  sure  enough,  it  was  as  he  said,  a 
first  rate  stand." 

"And  you  made  money,  Mr.  Malcolm  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  ;  I  stood  behind  the  counter  there,  for  a 
little  over  two  weeks,  from  early  in  the  morning  until  late  at 
night,  and  sometimes  most  to  next  morning. 

"  At  last,  early  one  morning — I  got  up  early,  for  I  hadn't 
slept  any  that  night — the  customers  hadn't  begun  to  come  in 
yet — my  partner  was  there.  Says  I, '  Jim,' — his  name  was  Jim 
— '  Jim,'  says  I, '  what  will  you  give  me  and  let  me  clear  out  ?  I 
am  kind  of  homesick.' 

'  'You  are  joking,'  says  he. 

' '  No,  I  am  in  sober  earnest.' 

' '  Why  we  are  doing  well,  ain't  we  ?' 

' '  We  are  doing  considerable  business,'  says  I. 

"And  it  is  a  good,  business,  ain't  it?  It  is  all  cash,  and 
profits  nearly  double ;  two  years  such  trade,  we  can  both  be 
rich.' 

" '  Don't  doubt  it,'  says  I, '  but  what  will  you  give  me  cash 
down,  and  let  me  off?' 

"  '  I  will  give  you  three  hundred  dollars ;  but  you  had  bet 
ter  not  quit.' 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  65 

" '  I  will  take  it,'  says  I ;  '  it's  a  bargain.' 

"  He  got  the  three  hundred  dollars  somewhere,  in  a  short 
time,  and  we  squared  all  matters  between  us.  'Now,'  says  .••<! 
'  Malcolm,  you  are  a  fool ;  you  are  throwing  away  the  best 
chance  a  man  ever  had.' 

" '  Jim,'  says  I,  '  I  love  money  as  well  as  most  people,  but 
if  I  cannot  make  it  without  serving  the  devil,  as  I've  been 
a  serving  him  for  the  last  two  weeks,  I  had  a  little  rather  be 
without  it.' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean  ?'  says  he 

"  'I  mean  what  I  say,'  said  I ;  '  I  don't  pretend  to  have  any 
more  religion  than  I  ought  to  have;  a  little  more  might  be 
of  advantage,  it  could  do  me  no  harm;  but  Jim,'  says  I 
'  there  ain't  money  enough  in  this  city  to  hire  me  to  stand 
behind  that  counter  and  deal  out  liquor  for  two  years  to 
come,  to  them  poor,  miserable,  distressed  critters,  that  are 
consuming  their  very  in'ards  with  the  nasty  stuff;  and  that 
ain't  all.  Why  don't  you  know  yourself,  it  is  just  like  being 
in — in  the  bad  place  itself.  Nothing  but  cursing  and  swear 
ing,  and  the  vilest  talk  that  a  decent  man  ever  listened  to. 
No,  no,'  said  I, '  I  don't  want  no  fortune  that's  made  in  this 
way.  I  can't  sleep  o'nights  now,  and  I  want  no  money 
earned  by  such  means.'  So  I  took  my  three  hundred  dollars 
and  went  and  got  into  the  boat  for  Maple  Cove.  And  that  is 
all  of  my  experience  in  the  city  ;  but  all  you  can  learn  from 
it,  I  guess,  is  this,  that  before  a  man  tries  to  do  business  on 
his  own  account,  he  must  learn  the  crooks  and  turns  in  it. 
And  there  is  another  thing  I  can  tell  you  from  what  I  have 
seen  there  ;  it  is  this,  that  a  man  or  boy  is  to  be  on  the  jump 
day  or  night,  when  business  calls.  They  don't  keep  noon 
marks  there,  where  a  man  can  throw  down  his  hoe  and  go  to 
dinner,  whether  his  row  is  done  or  not.  But  it  is  my  opinion 
that  if  a  boy  or  young  man  gets  into  a  place,  if  they  are  any 
kind  of  decent  folks,  and  he  is  true  and  faithful,  and  keeps 
his  mind  on  his  business,  and  does  his  best  to  do  right,  and  to 
please,  that  he  is  most  sure  to  do  well  and  creep  up,  and  that 
pretty  fast  too  sometimes;  but  it  all  depends,  as  I  take  it, 
upon  himself." 

Henry  listened  very  attentively  to  the  recital  of  Mr.  Mal 
colm,  and,  although  the  experience  of  the  old  man  was  rather 


56  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

imited,  yet  Henry  caught  a  few  ideas  which  he  meant  to 
bear  in  mind. 

The  next  morning  Henry  was  up  bright  and  early,  and  as 
ioon  as  breakfast  was  over  he  accompanied  Mr.  Malcolm  as 
far  as  the  mill,  being  on  his  way  to  visit  a  spot  he  longed 
much  to  see.  When  about  to  separate  from  the  old  gentle 
man,  the  latter  laid  his  hand  on  Henry's  shoulder : 

"  Now,  my  boy,  I  want  you  to  feel  entirely  welcome  to 
spend  some  days  here  ;  you  want  a  little  time  to  rest  yourself, 
and  think  over  all  what  you  mean  to  do.  It's  better  in  gene 
ral  for  us  to  look  well  round  about,  upon  matters,  and  to 
look  as  far  ahead  as  we  can ;  but  it  ain't  much  we  can  see 
in  that  direction,  anyhow.  A  man  might  most  as  well  have 
his  eyes  shut,  for  all  that  he  can  see  ahead  of  the  road  he  is 
to  travel  through  life.  My  opinion  is,  though,  that  he  should 
look  well  all  around  him  before  he  starts,  and  make  up  his 
mind  as  to  which  direction  he  means  to  go,  and  then  keep 
moving  on,  track  or  no  track,  climb  over  the  hills,  wad« 
through  the  streams,  push  aside  the  brambles  and  brushes,  and 
keep  a-going ;  he  will  come  out  into  daylight  somewhere,  see 
if  he  don't ;  so  you  must  not  be  in  any  hurry  about  starting- 
right  off,  we  will  all  consider  about  what  is  best  to  be  done, 
and  then  you  can  go  and  try  to  do  it.  And  now  go  and  take 
vour  walk,  but  mind  and  be  back  to  dinner." 

"  I  will,  sir." 

As  Henry  walked  off  with  a  sprightly  step,  the  old  man 
stood  and  watched  him  a  moment. 

"  He  is  a  comely  young  fellow ;  how  straight  and  manly 
he  holds  himself;  well  put  together,  but  not  quite  rugged 
enough  to  follow  the  plough,  or  swing  the  scythe.  He  has  got 
an  eye,  though,  that  looks  as  if  he  had  a  power  of  life  in  him. 
I  guess  there  is  grit  too,  mild  as  he  seems. 

Mr.  Malcolm's  opinion  of  Henry  was,  perhaps,  correct. 
He  did  not,  indeed,  appear  well  fitted  for  the  rougher  labors 
of  life,  although  no  doubt  he  might  become  inured  to  them. 
Many  a  delicate  frame  has  made  intense  efforts,  and  borne  up 
under  protracted  struggles,  when  more  robust  and  apparently 
hardier  men  have  drooped  and  perished. 

Henry  was,  however,  less  fitted  in  mind  for  the  severe 
drudgery  of  life,  than  was  his  person.  He  had  a  peculiar 
fondness  for  that  which  was  beautiful ;  all  the  little  refine- 


ALONE   ON    A   WIDE,    WIDE    SEA.  67 

ments  of  life  he  had  ever  clung  to.  He  never  seemed  to  feel 
at  ease  in  a  rough  or  unsightly  garb,  nor  in  any  company 
where  coarse  manners  or  coarse  language  were  indulged ; 
and  as  the  few  male  companions  he  had  were  of  that  class, 
he  was  of  necessity  driven  to  the  society  of  the  softer  sex. 
To  them  he  had  the  power  of  making  himself  peculiarly 
agreeable:  it  seemed  to  be  a  natural  gift;  with  them  he  felt 
at  home,  and  perhaps  their  tender  influence  had  given  a  tone 
10  his  feelings  and  a  gentleness  to  his  character,  which  some 
mistook  for  effeminacy,  and  therefore  looked  upon  him  as  an 
enervated  youth,  fit  only  to  be  a  pleasant  companion  in  the 
]>;trty  circle.  But  underlying  these  external  manifestations 
was  a  depth  of  feeling  and  strength  of  character  none  had  as 
yet  fathomed.  He  was  painfully  sensitive  in  regard  to  his 
independence:  he  wished,  by  his  own  exertions,  to  earn  the 
bread  which  he  ate,  and  to  be  clothed  by  the  means  which 
his  efforts  should  command  ;  he  was  sensitive  to  a  degree 
against  asking  a  favor,  and  acts  of  kindness  would  often  cause 
the  blood  to  tinge  his  cheeks,  as  though  it  was  a  crime  in 
him  to  accept  them. 

There  was  a  diffidence,  too,  in  his  nature,  that  made  him 
shrink  from  obtruding  himself  among  those  to  whom  he  could 
not  be  sure  his  presence  was  welcome ;  and  the  same  feeling 
caused  him,  at  times,  to  dread  being  thrown  into  the  crowd 
of  a  city :  he  could  have  wished  to  spend  his  life  with  a  few 
chosen  friends. 

He  was  not  naturally  courageous.  The  dark  thunder-cloud 
always  attracted  his  notice ;  to  him  it  seemed  a  messenger  of 
evil.  The  rushing  of  the  strong  wind,  and  the  tumult  of  the 
bursting  tempest,  would  blanch  his  cheek  and  fill  his  heart 
with  dread ;  but  no  word  would  escape  his  lips,  nor  would  he 
hesitate,  if  bidden,  to  meet  the  fury  of  the  elements  and 
expose  himself  to  their  violence.  Deep  within  he  smothered 
what  he  knew  might  make  him  a  subject  of  remark  or  ridi 
cule,  and  his  pride  and  natural  energy  enabled  him  to  face 
that  from  which  he  would  otherwise  have  been  disposed  to 
shrink. 

That  a  new  phase  of  character  was  developing  since  the 
death  of  his  mother,  we  have  seen :  his  bearing  before  him 
who  should  have  been  a  father,  but  who  Henry  felt  had  acted 
the  part  of  a  petty  tyrant;  his  resolute  departure  from  the 


68  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST  |    OK. 

place  which  had  been  his  home,  and  where  he  was  fully  enti 
tled  to  a  shelter,  and  throwing  himself  upon  his  own  efforts, 
are  certainly  some  evidence  that  his  self  confidence  is  not 
destroyed,  although  hitherto  it  may  have  been  obscured. 

With  this  declaration  of  his  peculiarities,  our  readers  will 
be  now  able,  as  we  trust,  to  appreciate  his  situation,  and  fol 
low  him  with  interest  through  his  lone  path  amid  the  entan 
glements  and  vicissitudes  of  life. 

As  Henry  drew  near  the  spot  to  which  his  steps  had  been 
directed,  his  pace  became  more  slow  and  his  thoughts  more 
sad ;  every  rock  and  tree  awoke  reminiscences  of  him  upon 
whose  hand  he  had  rested  when  a  child,  as  he  jumped  from 
rock  to  rock,  or  across  some  slight  ravine  which  the  summer 
showers  had  excavated.  All  he  had  then  enjoyed,  and  all  he 
had  since  suffered,  came  back  with  overpowering  freshness. 

At  length  he  has  climbed  a  dilapidated  stone  fence,  and 
.set  his  foot  upon  the  soil  which  was  once  "  their  Cedar  lot :" 
not  his  now,  except  that  his  heart  claimed  an  interest  which 
no  alienation  by  deed  of  sale  can  affect. 

The  turf  was  closely  cropped,  for  a  flock  of  sheep  was  graz 
ing  on  the  lot ;  but  the  soil  was  apparently  of  a  better  quality 
than  any  he  had  passed  over.  Here  and  there  upon  the  roll 
ing  surface  a  huge  rock  would  protrude  a  little  above  the 
turf;  and  scattered  in  clusters  throughout  the  inclosure  were 
flourishing  cedars,  perfuming  the  air  with  their  fine  aroma, 
and  giving  a  picturesque  appearance  to  the  locality,  which 
can  only  be  appreciated  by  one  whose  early  taste  has  been 
formed  where  those  rock-loving  trees  abound. 

To  Henry  it  was  the  perfection  of  beauty.  The  site  was 
somewhat  elevated,  and  the  grounds,  for  some  distance,  un 
even  ;  a  little  broken  at  spots,  but  for  the  most  part  in  slopes 
that  gradually  diminished  towards  the  east,  where  they  finally 
jutted  upon  the  waters  of  the  Sound,  which  flowed  thither  in 
a  fair,  wide  stream,  gracefully  sweeping  close  to  the  feet  of 
the  rocks,  and  then  off  again  into  the  marsh  which  spread  be 
tween  the  eastern  and  western  headlands.  Far  as  the  eye 
could  reach,  on  either  hand,  a  fair  view  presented  itself;  hill 
tops,  varied  with  the  green  turf  and  clusters  of  maple  and 
cedars ;  rocky  eminences,  through  whose  fissures  protruded 
evergreens  of  small  size,  but  large  enough  to  redeem  them 
from  naked  barrenness;  while,  occasionally,  broad,  rich  fields 


ALONE   ON    A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  69 

and  towering  woods  told  of  a  deeper  soil  and  greater  luxu 
riance  than  was  visible  around  the  immediate  locality  where 
he  then  stood. 

The  crowning  beauty  of  the  scene,  however,  was  the  vast 
sweep  which  the  eye  could  compass,  as  it  turned  from  the 
land  to  the  water  view.  No  sheet  of  water  in  our  beautiful 
country  presents  such  varied  attractions  to  the  eye  as  that  of 
Long  Island  Sound.  There  is  not,  indeed,  the  majesty  of  the 
ocean ;  nor  can  the  thoughts  lose  themselves  in  a  boundless 
sea  and  sky.  There  is  not  the  long  swell  of  the  mighty  wave, 
nor  the  deep  rumbling  of  their  breaking  billows  ;  but  there 
is  breadth  sufficient  to  fill  the  eye,  and  the  blue  hills  and 
headlands  form  delightful  boundaries  upon  which  the  sight 
can  rest  and  be  refreshed.  And  then  there  is  the  calm  of  the 
morning ;  the  mists  curling  up  upon  the  land ;  the  vast  mir 
ror  upon  which  the  rising  day  sheds  his  glowing  beams,  the 
gentle  breeze  breaking  its  smooth,  amber  surface  into  ceru 
lean  blue,  and  the  tempest  whitening  the  whole  area  with  sil 
very  spray;  while,  from  early  morn  to  nightfall,  the  white  sails 
of  our  neat  coasting  craft  are  ever  to  be  seen  ploughing  their 
way  through  sunshine  and  storm. 

Here  Henry  had  taken  his  first  lessons  in  scenery.  He 
could  not  have  told  why  he  loved  it  so,  but  it  always  exer 
cised  a  powerful  charm  over  him  ;  and  now  the  feelings  of 
the  past  blending  with  the  present,  chain  him  with  a  magic 
spell ;  he  turns  his  eye  from  hill  to  hill ;  he  looks  upon  the 
glossy  plain  far.  far  away ;  he  hears  the  chirping  birds,  and 
the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar :  and  all  bring  back  thoughts 
and  feelings  that  for  awhile  pressed  upon  his  young  heart 
heavily. 

And  now,  as  a  reality  he  had  not  comprehended  before,  his 
present  condition  rose  up  to  view. 

He  had,  indeed,  met  with  kindness  from  those  upon  whom 
he  had  no  claim ;  but  it  was  only  that  of  hospitality  to  a 
friendless  boy.  No  door  was  open  to  him  as  a  home ;  no 
hand  was  extended  that  could  aid  him  to  a  situation  where 
his  own  exertions  might  avail ;  he  must  go  far  off  among 
strangers,  and  work  his  way  as  best  he  might.  He  had  often 
imagined  how  he  would  feel  when  left  to  struggle  alone, 
should  that  be  his  fate ,  but  imagination  seldom  brings  out 
all  the  harsher  features  of  the  picture. 


70  TJRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

He  sat  down  upon  a  rock,  and  for  awhile  reclined  his 
head  upon  his  hand;  and  then,  as  his  thoughts  grew  more 
intense — as  though  weary  of  their  action— he  drew  forth  the 
little  pocket-book  that  contained  his  small  capital,  and  from 
one  of  its  cells  took  a  piece  of  printed  paper :  he  opened  it, 
and  began  to  peruse  its  contents.  It  was  a  passage  of  Scrip 
ture,  which  his  mother  had,  in  one  of  her  conversations  with 
him,  while  on  her  sick-bed,  requested  him  to  commit  to 
memory ;  and  for  this  purpose  he  had  abstracted  the  leaf  which 
contained  it  from  an  old  cast-off  Bible,  and  had  put  it  thus 
carefully  away  that  he  might  at  leisure  accomplish  the  task. 

It  was  the  third  chapter  of  Proverbs.  The  little  leaf 
seemed  now  a  sacred  relic,  so  connected  was  it  with  his  mo 
ther's  memory  ;  and  her  request  he  resolved  at  once  to  attend 
to,  as  that  of  a  dying  wish. 

Tears  started  as  he  looked  upon  the  sacred  words,  hallowed 
now  by  their  connection  with  that  beloved  being  who  had 
sought  to  do  him  all  the  good  her  helpless  condition  would 
allow.  Perhaps  she  knew  too  well  that  her  orphan  boy 
would  be  cast  upon  the  world,  and  the  most  she  could  then 
do,  was  to  try  and  lead  him  to  a  source  of  trust,  almighty 
and  unfailing. 

Henry  read  each  word  with  most  solemn  interest;  they 
seemed  to  him  words  from  the  spirit  land.  When  he  came 
to  the  fifth  and  sixth  verses,  his  soul  was  thrilled  with  the 
rich,  unearthly  instructions  therein  contained ;  again  and 
again  he  read  them ;  he  pronounced  them  with  an  audible 
voice,  and  as  their  precious  injunctions  and  promises  unfolded 
to  his  view,  he  seemed  to  hear  the  voice  of  his  Father  in 
Heaven,  whispering  to  him  in  accents  of  mercy ;  telling  him 
that  there  was  an  unseen  hand  stretched  out,  upon  which  he 
might  lean,  upon  whose  guidance  he  might  depend,  and  whose 
protecting  power  would  be  ever  near. 

Henry  had  not  been,  in  the  strict  sense,  religiously  edu 
cated.  He  had  been  taught  to  reverence  holy  things ;  he 
was,  when  very  young,  taught  to  say  his  prayers,  and  occa 
sionally  his  mother  had  given  him  a  hymn  to  learn. 

All  these  might  have  had  some  influence — no  doubt  they 
had  ;  but  a  counteracting  impression  had  been  made  by  the 
example  which  was  conspicuously  set  before  him  in  the  life 
of  his  step-father. 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  7 

He  saw  how  scrupulous  he  was  to  observe  all  the  outwaru 
decorum  of  the  Christian  worshipper,  while  the  lovely  ema- 
nations  of  the  Christian  character  were  never  witnessed,  eithei 
in  word  or  deed,  within  the  domestic  circle.  Sabbaths  rigidly 
observed;  the  Bible  regularly  opened  at  stated  times,  and 
read  aloud  ;  the  pew  in  the  church  always  filled ;  family 
prayers  formally  gone  through  with.  But  the  graces  of 
patience,  meekness,  gentleness,  sympathy,  and  domestic  char 
ity,  were  never  exhibited  to  Henry's  young,  but  observant 
mind.  No  wonder,  then,  if  but  little  effect  had  been  pro 
duced  by  his  contact  with  Christian  observances,  when  his 
heart  was  repelled  by  the  points  which  they  presented  to  his 
daily  notice. 

But  Henry,  happily,  had  not  confounded  the  truth  itself 
with  the  irregularities  of  some  who  professed  to  be  governed 
by  its  precepts.  The  word  of  God  was  to  him  a  pure  foun 
tain,  although  he  may  not  have  taken  delight  in  reading  it ; 
he  reverenced  it  as  something  connected  with  the  eternal 
world,  as  a  message  from  heaven,  the  revealer  of  unearthly 
mysteries. 

But  there  is  something  more  than  reverence  in  his  heart 
now,  as  he  sits  upon  that  rock  amid  the  spicy  cedars,  holding 
in  his  hands  that  stray  leaf,  while  his  eye,  beaming  with 
unwonted  brilliancy,  is  raised  towards  heaven. 

"  Yes  !"  he  exclaims  aloud,  in  the  fervor  of  his  joy  ;  "  I  will 
commit — I  do  commit  myself  to  thee,  oh,  thou  Father  of  the 
fatherless !  From  this  hour  I  will  acknowledge  thee  in  all 
my  ways  ?" 

We  will  not  say  that  Henry  had  fully  yielded  up  his  heart 
in  a  covenant  with  God,  as  his  Redeemer  from  all  iniquity ;  or 
that  the  calm  which  pervaded  his  mind  was  a  token  of  that 
peace  which  flows  from  a  sense  of  reconciliation  through  the 
blood  of  Christ;  but  it  was  very  nearly  allied  to  it.  He 
revived  under  its  influence;  he  felt  stronger  than  he  had 
yet  done.  That  oppressive  sense  of  loneliness,  which  threw 
such  a  chill  upon  his  heart,  and  spread  such  a  mist  about 
his  path,  he  no  longer  felt.  All  about  him  shone  with  new 
radiance ;  every  tree  and  shrub,  the  rocks,  the  greensward, 
the  water,  and  the  sky,  spoke  of  a  Father's  power  and  pre 
sence  ;  and  in  the  fullness  of  his  joy,  he  wept. 

After  thus,  for  some  moments,  giving  vent  to  his  feelings, 


72  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OE, 

his  mind  was  absorbed  with  two  important  subjects  that 
claimed  immediate  attention.  One  was,  '"  In  what  way  or 
by  what  means  could  he  maintain  a  steady  reliance  on  the 
Divine  Power  ?"  and  the  other,  "  What  decision  should  he 
come  to,  as  to  the  course  before  him  ?" 

In  regard  to  the  first  the  direction  seemed  plain  ;  he  could 
not  be  mistaken  as  to  its  meaning ;  again  and  again  he 
read  it : 

"  Acknowledge  him  in  all  thy  ways  and  he  shall  direct 
thy  steps !"  This  he  resolved  to  do.  Hereafter,  from  this 
hour,  he  determines  that  his  first  and  last  act  on  each  day  of 
his  life  should  be  a  prayer  for  Almighty  aid,  and  an  ac 
knowledgment  of  Almighty  care.  He  resolves,  in  like  manner, 
that  the  directions  laid  down  in  this  chapter  should  be  his 
guide  in  all  his  dealings  with  his  fellow  men  and  in  his  duty 
to  him  upon  whose  care  he  had  thrown  himself. 

And  whatever  may  be  his  lot,  it  is  a  blessed  resolve  he  has 
made.  He  has  grasped  a  strong  staff,  that  will  never  prove 
false,  for  his  support !  He  has  placed  his  young  heart  under 
the  influence  of  a  set  of  rules  which  will  defend  it  from  many 
a  bitter  pang,  and,  if  not  to  wealth,  will  most  assuredly  lead 
to  peace  of  mind. 

We  feel  easier  on  your  account,  thou  young  wrestler  with 
the  toils  and  snares  of  life.  May  you  be  kept  within  the 
hallowed  influence  of  the  guide  you  have  chosen ! 

As  to  the  way  in  which  he  should  direct  his  steps,  so  far 
as  his  young  judgment  could  decide,  he  concluded  that  the 
wiser  plan  for  him  was  to  go  at  once  to  the  city  of  New 
York,  where,  if  in  any  place,  an  opening  might  be  procured 
for  such  work  as  he  thought  himself  best  fitted  for ;  and  in 
order  to  save  as  much  as  possible  of  his  little  fund,  he 
determined  to  go  there  on  foot.  It  would  take  him  some 
days,  and  money  was  of  more  consequence  to  him  now  than 
time. 

He  had  but  just  marked  out  his  plans  with  distinctness  and 
certainty,  so  far  as  his  own  mind  was  concerned,  when  the 
sound  of  some  one  whistling  a  pleasant  tune  attracted  his 
notice ;  he  immediately  arose  and  prepared  to  retrace  his 
steps  towards  the  mill,  when  not  far  from  where  he  had  been 
sitting  be  beheld  a  youth,  apparently  about  his  own  age.  He 
was  standing  upon  a  spot  a  little  more  elevated  than  that 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE    SEA.  73 

which  Henry  had  occupied,  and  was  intently  surveying  the 
fine  prospect  which  the  eastern  view  presented.  Both  looked 
surprised,  for  each  was  unconscious  that  any  other  human 
being  was  within  hearing. 

As  soon  as  the  young  man  saw  Henry,  he  began  to  advance 
towards  him,  and  Henry  paused  in  his  progress,  which  would 
have  been  in  an  opposite  direction.  Henry  concluded  at  once, 
from  his  dress  and  bearing,  that  he  was  not  one  of  the  ordi 
nary  youth  of  that  vicinity,  and  being  himself  naturally 
retiring,  did  not,  on  that  account,  make  any  further  advance 
than  what  under  the  circumstances  seemed-  to  him  to  be 
civil.  He  paused,  as  has  been  said,  and  awaited  his  approach. 
The  young  man,  as  he  drew  near,  with  a  very  pleasant  smile, 
said — 

"  Good  morning ;  I  believe  we  are  both  taken  by  surprise. 
I  had  no  idea  there  was  any  one  here  but  myself." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Henry,  his  countenance  also  brightning  into 
a  smile. 

"  Do  you  live  near  this  ?  Excuse  me  for  asking,  for  I 
have  been  looking  round  some  days  to  find  an  associate,  and 
I  have  given  it  up.  All  the  young  folks  seem  to  have  gone 
off;  it  is  the  most  lonesome  place  I  was  ever  at." 

"  I  suppose  at  this  season  they  are  all  busy  in  the  fields." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  the  reason ;  but  I  do  not  know  what 
to  make  of  the  place.  There  are  many  nice  looking 
houses ;  but  all  the  men  and  boys  I  have  met  look  so  rough, 
and  they  seem  to  be  afraid  of  me.  I  have  tried  to  speak  to 
one  or  two  of  them,  but  they  are  not  at  all  inclined  to  be 
sociable ; — stupid,  are  they  'not  ?" 

"  I  am  not,  myself,  much  acquainted  here,  although  it  was 
once  my  home.  I  have  been  away  for  some  years,  and  as  I 
do  not  expect  to  be  here  but  a  day  longer,  I  have  not  felt 
like  hunting  up  acquaintances." 

"  Then  you  do  not  live  here  ?" 

"  No  ;  I  am  here  merely  on  a  visit." 

"  Then  we  are  alike  as  to  that ;  I  came  up  from  New  York 
to  visit  some  friends  that  live  in  this  vicinity.  The  air  is 
fine  here,  and  some  of  the  scenery  is  beautiful,  but  I  must 
say  I  do  not  fancy  the  people." 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  could  stay  long  enough  to  become 
acquainted  you  might  change  your  opinion.  You  must 

4 


74  TRUE  TO   THE  LAST  ;   OK, 

remember  this  is  a  busy  season  of  the  year;  all  hands  are  at 
work,  and  all  are  in  their  working  rig." 

"  But  I  should  think  that  reason  not  a  sufficient  excuse  for 
rough  manners.  Do  you  think  they  are  ashamed  of  their 
work,  or  of  their  dress  ;  or  what  is  it  ?" 

"  I  can  hardly  tell ;  but  perhaps  they  inferred  from  your 
dress  that  you  were  from  the  city,  and  on  that  account 
thought  you  felt  above  them." 

"  Then  they  thought  very  wrong.  You  do  not  think  so,  I 
hope  ?"  and  the  youth  smiled  very  pleasantly  as  he  said  this, 
and  Henry  could  not  but  notice  what  a  fair,  genial  counte 
nance  he  had,  and  felt,  he  scarcely  knew  why,  quite  at  home 
with  him. 

"  You  have  not,  I  must  confess,  made  any  such  impression 
upon  me.  T  expect,  in  a  few  days  to  be  in  the  city  myself, 
and  should  be  sorry  to  entertain  any  such  prejudice." 

"  You  are  going  to  the  city  !  That  is  good !  I  am  glad 
we  have  met,  then.  Have  you  ever  been  there?" 

"  I  have  not." 

"  Have  you  friends  there  ?" 

"  No ;  I  must  make  my  friends  when  I  get  there." 

"  Come,  then,  let  us  take  a  seat,  and  have  a  good  long 
talk  together.  Who  knows  but  I  may  be  one  of  them  ;  I  wish 
we  might  become  acquainted." 

Henry  readily  assented,  for  there  was  an  open,  easy,  frank 
manner  with  the  youth  that  pleased  him,  beyond  that  of  any 
person  of  his  own  age  he  had  seen  in  a  long  time,  if  ever. 

It  will  not  be  necessary  for  us  to  follow  them  through  the 
details  of  their  conversation.  They  were  both  in  the  spring 
time  of  life,  and  their  hearts  a^  yet  unspoiled  by  contact 
with  the  selfishness  of  the  world.  They  had  neither  of  them 
any  secrets  which  they  were  afraid  should  be  known  ;  they 
had  no  sinister  ends  to  accomplish ;  they  were  mutually 
pleased  with  each  other's  appearance ;  and  it  was  not  long, 
as  they  thus  sat,  with  nature  in  its  freshness  all  around  them, 
and  the  balmy  summer  air  fanning  their  uncovered  heads, 
unfolding  to  each  other  the  story  of  their  life  and  the  pros 
pects  before  them,  ere  they  felt  not  only  acquainted,  but 
in  the  heart  of  one  of  them  at  least  was  engendered  a  strong 
attachment. 

They  were  not  alike  in  their  circumstances,  and  perhaps 


ALONE   ON    A    WIDE,    \VIDE   SEA.  75 

not  peculiarly  so  in  their  natural  temperament ;  but  in  open, 
ingenuous,  frankness  and  honesty,  in  thought  and  ex 
pression,  there  was  apparently  but  little  dissimilarity. 

Henry  soon  learned  that  the  name  of  his  companion  was 
Evart  Marston ;  that  his  father  had  been  dead  some  years ; 
that  his  mother  was  still  a  widow  ;  and  he  formed  the  opinion 
that  the  young  man  was  rich,  thong  i  not  from  aLything  which 
was  said  directly  on  that  point,  but  he  kept  his  own  horse 
and  gig  in  the  city  to  ride  out  with  at  his  own  pleasure, 
and  his  time  seemed  to  be  very  much  at  his  own  disposal. 

Henry  had  also  told  what  he  thought  proper  of  his  own 
situation,  having  no  reluctance  to  let  it  be  known  that  he  was 
poor  and  expected  to  depend  for  his  living  on  his  own 
exertions,  and  it  seemed  to  excite  in  his  companion  a  deeper 
feeling  of  interest  for  him. 

"  And  now,"  said  young  Marston,  starting  up,  "  I  must 
leave  you  for  the  present,  tor  my  friends  will  not  know  what 
has  become  of  me.  I  believe  we  know  all  about  each  other  ; 
I  am  so  glad  we  have  happened  to  meet.  You  will  come 
and  see  me  as  soon  as  you  get  to  the  city  ?  You  will 
remember  the  street — Cortlandt  street,  No.  —  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly,  I  will  call  upon  you  !  but  it  may  not  be 
very  soon ;  you  know  my  first  business  must  be  to  find  a 
situation." 

"  Oh,  but  I  want  you  to  come  straight  to  my  house.  I 
want  you  to  come  and  stay  there,  and  we  will  have  some 
fine  rides  together,  and  I  will  show  you  all  the  sights.  You 
know  you  will  need,  first  of  all,  to  get  a  little  acquainted 
with  the  city,  and  to  see  all  that  is  to  be  seen ;  and  then,  you 
know,  you  can  take  your  time  about  getting  a  place.  Places 
enough,  no  doubt.  Sometimes  I  have  thought  of  going  into 
a  store  myself,  just  to  learn  business  a  little ;  and  may  be  we 
can  get  into  the  same  store  ;  that  would  be  nice  !" 

And  so  they  parted,  cordially  shaking  hands,  as  friends 
might  have  done  who  had  been  intimate  for  years.  Henry 
noticed  at  a  distance,  upon  the  highway,  as  he  was  returning 
to  the  mill,  a  horse  and  carriage  tied  to  the  fence,  and  soon 
he  saw  his  new  friend  jump  in  and  drive  off,  in  the  opposite 
direction  to  that  he  was  going. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

OFF,  at  last,  on  the  wide  world  !  A  stranger  to  its  ways, 
and  as  yet  a  stranger  to  its  wonderful  vicissitudes.  Henry 
has  started !  He  is  not  cheerful ;  for  he  has  just  bade  adieu 
to  the  last  persons  he  can  call  friends,  and  in  the  long  road 
before  him  there  is  no  expectation  of  meeting  with  those 
whom  he  had  ever  known.  There  is  no  path  marked  out  for 
him  by  any  upon  whose  judgment  or  experience  he  can  con 
fide.  He  expects  to  meet  no  kind  counsellor  of  whom  he 
can  ask  advice.  He  has  no  spot  to  which  in  an  extremity 
he  can  resort,  and  shelter  himself  as  in  a  home.  The  truth 
in  all  its  nakedness  and  power  has  never  been  quite  so  fully 
realized,  as  when  he  finds  himself  beyond  sight  of  the  old 
mill,  and  with  his  small  portmanteau  in  hand,  on  a  road  he 
had  never  travelled.  He  has  still,  however,  good  courage, 
he  walks  at  a  brisk  pace,  faster  than  is  expedient  for  a  jour 
ney,  but  it  is  natural  for  him;  he  will  learn  before  the  day  is 
through,  better  how  to  regulate  his  speed. 

It  was  not  the  best  kind  of  a  day  for  labor ;  the  air  was 
sultry,  and  although  the  sun's  rays  were  obscured  by  light 
clouds,  a  circumstance  upon  which  Henry  had  congratulated 
himself  at  his  first  start,  yet  he  soon  found  the  heat  oppres 
sive,  and  there  was  a  dingy  hue  to  the  atmosphere,  through 
which  distant  objects  were  beheld,  that  spoiled  the  beauty  of 
the  scenery,  to  whichever  side  of  the  horizon  the  eye  was  di 
rected.  The  roads  were  dusty,  and  as  every  vehicle  which 
passed  left  a  cloud  behind  it,  which  the  wind  refused  to  bear 
away,  the  particles  would  long  be  floating  by  the  roadside 
where  the  footpath  ran,  until  they  settled  upon  the  grass  and 
shrubs,  and  trees,  and  the  foot  traveller  too. 

Up  hill  and  down — long,  long  hills,  up  which  it  had  been 
useless  to  attempt  to  make  speed — they  must  be  surmounted 
by  a  steady,  moderate  step,  and  on  the  way,  where  a  rock 
was  handy,  a  few  moments'  rest  was  by  no  means  unwel 
come  ;  and  then  long  level  tracks,  that  pained  the  eye,  they 

seemed  so  endless.     The  noon  at  last  arrived,  and  Henry  en- 
re 


TRUE   TO  THE   LA8T.  77 

ters  a  tavern  and  seeks  repose  upon  the  long  bench  of  its 
piazza.  He  is  not  hungry,  for  he  has  eaten  some  biscuit 
which  the  kind  friends  from  whom  he  parted  in  the  morning 
had  supplied  him  with  ;  at  the  well  he  quenches  his  thirst — 
he  shakes  the  dust  a  little  from  his  clothes — asks  how  many 
miles  to  the  next  tavern,  and  goes  on  his  way.  He  has  not 
rested  as  long  as  he  ought,  but  his  mind  begins  to  be  uneasy, 
his  thoughts  are  not  pleasant,  faces  are  all  new  to  him,  and 
although  he  does  not  expect,  by  going  on,  to  meet  with  those 
he  ever  saw  before,  yet  he  feels  better  when  in  motion  than 
at  rest;  at  any  rate,  he  does  not  trust  himself  to  think,  and 
thoughts  can  be  kept  at  bay  better  when  on  the  way  than 
sitting  in  a  strange  house,  and  hearing  strange  voices — they 
remind  him  too  forcibly  of  his  desolate  condition. 

Twelve  miles  he  had  yet  to  go  over  when  he  left  this 
stopping-place,  and  he  found,  long  before  half  that  distance 
was  accomplished,  that  he  had  misjudged  his  own  ability. 
Every  hjll  began  to  wear  a  forbidding  aspect,  nor  was  the 
long  road  which  his  eye  Qould  travel  much  less  so  ;  his  pauses 
to  rest  were  more  frequent,  but  the  relief  gained  of  short  du 
ration  ;  his  feet,  too,  began  to  trouble  him ;  both  had  become 
swollen  and  painful,  and  at  every  rest  he  allowed  himself,  the 
difficulty  at  starting  was  more  obvious.  His  great  anxiety 
however,  to  accomplish  the  distance  he  had  proposed  urged 
him  forward.  As  the  day  began  to  wear  away,  and  while 
yet  some  miles  from  the  anticipated  place  of  rest  for  the  night, 
the  signs  of  an  approaching  storm  became  very  marked.  It 
had  thundered  occasionally  through  the  afternoon,  and  now 
dense  clouds  were  heaping  up  in  the  west.  Henry  could  not 
keep  his  eye  from  them — a  thunder-cloud  at  once  cast 
gloom  upon  his  mind — he  could  not  see  in  it  the  appointed 
means  for  relieving  the  burdened  atmosphere,  and  bringing  a 
pure  air  ana  bright  skies.  It  was  rather  to  him  a  token  of 
wrath  and  some  fearful  coming  evil ;  he  saw  that  the  clouds  ga 
thered  slowly,  but  still  they  were  spreading  and  growing  darker, 
and  heaping  up  in  heavier  masses,  and  he  urged  his  speed. 
Five  miles,  he  learned  from  one  he  had  just  met,  intervened 
before  he  could  reach  the  next  tavern,  and  all  the  dwellings 
which  occasionally  he  passed  were  not  such  as  he.  felt  free 
to  ask  shelter  in,  although,  doubtless,  not  one  of  them  but 
would  have  freely  afforded  it  to  a  weary  boy.  They  were  of 


78  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

the  finer  class  of  buildings,  far  back  from  the  road,  with 
lawns  spreading  before  them,  and  fine  avenues  by  which  they 
were  approached,  and  some  of  them  a  mile  off  at  least, 
perched  upon  some  headland  of  the  Sound.  The  evening  was 
at  hand,  or  perhaps  the  dark  mantle  which  obscured  the  sun 
caused  him  to  think  so — he  could  not  tell  the  hour,  nor  could 
he  tell  whether  the  sun  had  really  set,  or  whether  the  sha 
dows  which  were  falling  on  the  earth  were  those  of  the  com 
ing  stonn.  How  far  he  had  walked  since  he  last  inquired 
the  distance,  he  knew  not ;  he  had  made  all  the  speed  possi 
ble,  but  was  conscious  that  the  way  seemed  very  long,  and  as 
he  surmounted  the  summit  of  a  hill  and  saw  before  him  a 
long  stretch  of  road,  hiding  itself  in  a  heavy  wood,  and  no 
dwelling  in  sight  but  one,  and  that  in  keeping  with  those  he 
had  passed,  his  heart  grew  very  sad  ;  and  the  deep  roll  of  heavy 
thunder,  preceded  by  the  first  flash  of  lightning  he  had  seen, 
told  that  the  storm  was  indeed  near  at  hand.  He  sees  a  tra 
veller  approaching,  and  he  is  driving  with  speed,.doubtless 
hastening  to  some  sheltering  home.  Presently  he  stops,  and 
is  about  to  enter  the  avenue  which  leads  to  the  mansion  just 
mentioned;  the  beautiful  gate  is  thrown  open,  and  the  obe 
dient  horse  walks  through,  and  stops  until  his  master  shall 
have  closed  the  portal — a  moment  the  gentleman  pauses  and 
casts  a  careless  glance  at  Henry — Henry  is  near  enough  to 
perceive  that  he  may  well  be  the  owner  of  the  mansion,  for 
his  dress  and  the  establishment  in  which  he  rode  were  in 
keeping  with  the  fine  fences  and  elegant  appearance  of  the 
whole  premises.  He  was  tall  and  well  built,  and  as  Henry 
caught  the  glance  of  his  eye,  he  thought  he  had  never  met  a 
more  piercing  gaze,  and  an  apparent  scowl  upon  his  brow 
caused  Henry  for  the  moment  to  feel  that  it  would  not  do 
for  him  even  to  venture  a  question  as  to  the  distance  he 
yet  was  from  the  tavern,  but  prompted  by  that  spirit  of  po 
liteness  so  natural  to  him,  even  dirty  and  tired  as  he  was, 
he  touched  his  hat  without  speaking. 

"  Good  evening,  sir." 

The  tones  of  the  voice  were  so  in  contrast  with  the  look, 
that  Henry  at  once  responded  to  the  salutation ;  touched  his 
hat  again,  slightly  raising  it,  and  slackened  for  a  moment  his 
pace..  The  gentleman  advanced  towards  him. 

"  Whither  bound,  my  young  friend  ?" 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  79 

"  I  am  trying  to  reach  the  tavern.  Can  you  tell  me,  sir, 
how  far  I  am  from  it  ?" 

"  You  are  three  miles  from  it.  Do  you  know  the  people 
there  ?  are  they  friends  of  yours  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  ;  "I  was  never  here  before." 

"  Travelling,  eh  !     Not  run  away,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir.     I  have  no  one  to  run  away  from." 

"No  father?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  No  mother  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

Henry's  usual  manner  was  to  speak  quickly,  but  now  the 
last  question,  in  his  wearied  condition,  almost  overcame  his 
power  to  answer.  He  was  obliged  to  do  it  quickly  or  not  at 
all.  The  gentleman  perceived  his  emotion,  and  began  him 
self  to  be  disturbed  ;  his  heart  was  not  as  stern  as  his  gaze. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  my  young  friend,  you  cannot  reach 
the  tavern,  do  your  best,  before  the  storm  will  overtake  you  ; 
and  I  should  judge  from  your  appearance  you  have  walked 
far  enough  already,  and  more  than  that,  our  taverns  in  these 
parts  are  no  very  likely  places  to  put  up  at.  Come,  if  you 
have  no  objections,  jump  into  my  carriage,  and  I'll  give  you 
a  better  shelter  for  the  night." 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  thank  you  much  ;  you  are  very  good ;  but" — 
and  Henry  looked  at  his  garments,  covered  with  dust,  as 
though  he  were  hardly  fit  for  decent  company.  The  gentle 
man,  however,  anticipated  his  objection. 

"Never  mind  your  but ;  you  will  find  your  dress  no  hin 
drance  to  a  welcome.  You  have  learned  good  manners,  and 
that  is  of  more  consequence  than  fine  clothes.  Come,  jump 
in,  for  the  storm  is  approaching  rapidly." 

In  a  moment  more  Henry  was  riding  behind  a  noble 
horse,  and  in  a  finer  vehicle  than  he  had  ever  been  seated  in. 
Swiftly  they  passed  through  the  curving  avenue,  lined  with 
majestic  trees,  and  at  intervals,  through  the  branches,  a 
glimpse  only  of  the  mansion  could  be  had.  The  gentleman 
drove  fast,  for  the  signs  of  the  bursting  storm  were  becoming 
every  moment  more  portentous.  He  had  time,  though,  before 
reaching  the  house,  to  learn  from  a  few  questions  much  of 
Henry's  history  and  the  object  for  which  he  was  thus  travel- 
lino;  alone  and  on  foot. 


80  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

The  scene  at  the  house  was  somewhat  calculated  to  abash 
our  young  traveller ;  for  on  the  ample  piazza  was  quite  a  col 
lection  of  ladies,  old  and  young,  richly  dressed,  and  with  an 
eye  fixed  on  the  young  stranger.  All  embarrassment  was 
immediately  removed  by  the  peculiar  recepfion  awaiting  him, 
the  moment  an  announcement  could  be  made  as  to  the  pur 
port  of  the  visit.  There  was  a  welcome  beaming  from  every 
face,  besides  the  outspoken  one  by  the  mistress  of  the  man 
sion. 

"  You  have  had  a  dusty  walk,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  took 
his  hand,  "  and  I  think  you  must  be  very  tired.  Here,  Ran 
dolph  !"  and  a  lad  of  about  twelve  years  came  quickly  up — 
"show  this  young  gentleman  into  the  south  room  of  the 
north  wing — the  room  next  to  yours." 

"  I  will,  with  pleasure." 

And  then,  addressing  Henry,  "  You  may  consider  that  as 
your  room  for  the  night ;  and  do  you  see,  Randolph,  that  he 
has  water  there  ;  and  when  you  are  rid  of  your  dust,  and 
feel  a  little  refreshed,  we  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  among  us. 
But  I  expect  you  will  not  feel  very  comfortable  until  you  get 
a  good  cup  of  tea.  Mr.  Marston  tells  me  your  name  is 
Thornton." 

"  Henry  Thornton,  madam." 

"  Henry  is  it  ?  Well,  I  like  that  name ;  and  shall  I  call 
you  Henry  or  Mr.  Thornton  ?" 

"  Oh,  Henry  if  you  please,  madam." 

"  Well,  Henry,  now  make  yourself  at  home.  My  son  will 
wait  upon  you  to  your  room,  and  let  us  have  your  company 
as  soon  as  possible." 

The  moment  Henry  had  disappeared  there  was  quite  a 
little  gathering  around  the  lady.  First,  the  gentleman  him 
self,  who  had  just  come  up,  after  giving  his  horse  in  charge 
of  the  servant. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear,  that  I  happened  to'be  coming  in 
the  gate  just  as  the  poor  fellow  came  along.  I  glanced  my 
eye  at  him,  and  there  was  something  in  his  countenance  that 
at  once  attracted  me." 

"Has  he  not  pretty  eyes,  papa  ?" 

"  What  do  you  know  about  pretty  eyes,  you  pussy  ?"  and 
he  patted  the  little  fairy  on  the  head  as  he  said  it.  She  was 
holding  his  hand  and  swinging  herself  to  and  fro  before  him. 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  81 

"  You  remember,  mamma,"  again  addressing  his  wife,  "  I 
have  often  told  you  of  my  first  beginning  life ;  how  I  started 
off  alone,  and  how  disconsolate  I  felt.  Well,  it  seemed  to 
me,  when  I  first  had  a  full  view  of  his  countenance,  I  could 
see  how  I  once  looked  and  felt." 

"  And  you  pitied  him  ?" 

"  How  could  I  help  it?  Ah  !  I  tell  you,  children,  I  hope 
you  may  never  know  what  it  is  to  be  alone  in  the  world ; 
poor  amongst  strangers,  not  wishing  to  ask  favors,  anxious  to 
take  care  of  yourself,  and  yet  not  knowing  what  to  do.  Oh, 
it's  a  terrible  world  sometimes.  None  know  but  they  who 
have  to  bear  its  trials  in  their  youth,  with  no  helping  hand 
to  give  them  a  lift,  and  no  kind  voice  to  say  '  God  bless  you  ; 
but  what  are  you  thinking  of,  Janette  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking,  if  you  had  not  gone  through  what  you 
did,  a  great  many  persons  might  not  be  as  well  off  as  they 
now  are." 

"  You  mean  yourself  and  this  little  puss,  and  mamma  and 
the  rest  of  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  was  not  thinking  of  ourselves,  but  others  whom 
you  have  helped." 

"  Well,  never  mind  that.  But  don't  you  think,  my  dear, 
there  is  something  peculiarly  prepossessing  in  his  counte 
nance,  there  is  a  softness,  and  yet  energy  with  it — a  kind  of 
determination  that  would  make  him  go  ahead,  although  his 
feelings  might  shrink  at  the  encounter." 

"  I  expect,  papa,  you  must  give  your  imagination,  or  more 
properly  your  heart,  credit  for  your  discernment,  you  have 
found  out  that  he  has  no  parents,  and  is  poor,  is  going  a  long 
distance  to  try  and  make  his  own  way,  and  you  see  all  kinds 
of  good  qualities  in  his  countenance,  just  as  I  can  see  some 
very  strong  marks  of  a  tender  heart  in  your  face,  when  one 
who  did  not  know  you  might  say — 

"Out  with  it,  Jenny,  out  with  it." 

The  lovely  speaker,  whose  proper  name  was  Janette,  and 
the  eldest  of  the  two  daughters,  whispered  the  remark  which 
she  was  designing  to  make  to  her  mother. 

"  What  does  she  say,  mamma  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing — only  what  we  all  say,  that  we  wish  you 
would  put  away  that  scowl ;  it  belies  your  heart." 

"  It  does,  ha  !  well  the  scowl  has  not  come  there  without  a 


82  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OE, 

cause.  I've  had  to  encounter  many  a  hard  storm  while  my 
features  were  being  formed  ;  it's  a  wonder  they  have  not  been 
worse  twisted  than  they  now  are.  Ah  !  there  comes  Evart ; 
he  drives  like  Jehu,  but  he  well  may  now,  for  the  storm  is  at 
his  heels." 

The  person  alluded  to  drove  directly  to  the  stables,  with 
all  the  speed  he  could  make,  while  the  members  of  the  family 
withdrew  from  the  piazza  in  haste,  each  running  to  different 
quarters  of  the  house,  in  order  to  close  all  openings  against 
the  furious  tempest  which  was  filling  the  air  with  its  mighty 
roar,  and  bringing  on  its  wing  a  dense  cloud  of  dust  and 
leaves.  Its  first  blast  against  the  dwelling  was  with  a  fury 
that  made  the  strong  fabric  tremble  as  if  an  earthquake  were 
rumbling  beneath  its  foundations,  and  for  a  few  moments, 
even  the  stoutest  heart  under  its  roof  was  made  to  feel  how 
terrible  is  "  He  who  rideth  upon  the  whirlwind,  and  directs 
the  storm."  A  little  more  letting  forth  of  his  mysterious 
agents  and  their  dwelling,  strong  as  they  thought  it,  would 
be  but  as  the  chaff  of  the  thrashing-floor. 

Henry,  on  retiring  to  the  little  room  assigned  him,  had 
forgotten  all  about  the  storm,  which,  but  a  short  period  be 
fore,  had  filled  him  with  dismay,  and  to  do  him  justice,  we 
must  say,  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  when  hopeless  of 
finding  shelter,  to  meet  it  and  bear  its  fury.  He  knew  not 
indeed  how  his  resolution  might  hold  out  in  the  time  of  trial, 
but  he  had  a  kind  of  confidence  that  he  was  travelling  the 
path  assigned  him,  and  that  He  whom  he  had  begun  to 
acknowledge  in  all  his  ways,  would  not  only  direct  his  path, 
but  prove  a  protection  in  his  time  of  need.  But  now  all 
thoughts  of  it  had  passed  away,  and  his  first  act,  after  being 
left  by  his  polite  attendant,  was  to  take  out  the  little  leaf 
from  his  pocket  and  read  a  few  of  its  verses.  Oh,  how  like 
a  light  from  heaven  had  the  scene  of  the  last  few  moments 
been;  it  shone  upon  the  passage  which  had  a  few  days  pre 
vious  been  deeply  impressed  upon  his  mind,  with  a  lovely  bril 
liance,  and  his  heart  burned  within  him.  Already  had  he  re 
ceived  a  token  of  the  divine  care — how  opportune  had  it 
come.  As  on  angel's  wings  he  had  been  transported,  and  his 
drooping,  fearful  heart  made  to  rejoice  in  a  kindly  welcome  ; 
he  had  felt  the  warm  grasp  and  met  the  pleasant  smile,  and 
been  made  to  feel  at.  home  amongst  hearts  full  of  melting 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  83 

charity,  and  now,  while  the  wind  howls,  and  the  thunders 
crash  around,  he  is  pouring  out  thanksgiving  from  his  full 
heart.  As  he  arose  and  looked  forth  upon  the  raging  ele 
ments,  he  wondered  he  had  ever  allowed  himself  to  be  so 
disturbed  by  them  in  days  past;  but  the  spell  is  now  broken, 
their  aspect  henceforth  will  never,  he  feels  assured,  be  fraught 
with  terror  to  him. 

Feeling  that  respect  for  those  of  whose  hospitality  he  was 
partaking,  demanded  of  him  the  best  appearance  he  could 
make,  he  soon  exchanged  his  rough  travelling  dress  for  one 
more  appropriate  for  the  circle  he  was  about  to  enter.  Care 
fully  arranging  everything  in  his  room,  that  had  in  any  way 
been  disturbed  by  use,  and  repacking  with  care  his  little 
portmanteau,  he  was  about  to  descend,  when  a  gentle  rap 
at  the  door,  and  the  pleasant  voice  of  Randolph  caused  him 
at  once  to  open  it 

"  Mamma  sends  her  compliments,  and  says,  if  you  are 
ready,  she  will  be  happy  to  see  you  at  the  tea-table." 

Following  his  guide,  who  chatted  with  him  pleasantly  on 
the  way  about  the.  terrible  gust,  and  how  it  had  frightened 
some  of  them,  he  was  soon  ushered  into  a  spacious  hall, 
where  the  family  were  assembling  for  the  evening. meal,  and 
was  again  receiving  a  welcome  from  the  lady  of  the  house, 
when  his  hand  was  grasped  by  a  youth  of  his  own  age,  and 
cordially  shook.  Henry  was  at  first  so  astonished  as  scarcely 
to  realize  they  had  ever  met  before. 

"  You  haven't  forgotten  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  oh,  no !  Mr.  Marston,  please  excuse  me ;  our 
meeting  is  so  unexpected." 

"  Unexpected  it  is  indeed  to  me,  I  assure  you ;  but  allow 
me  now  to  introduce  you.  Aunt,  this  is  Mr.  Henry  Thorn 
ton.  My  uncle,  Captain  Marston.  My  cousins,  Miss  Janette, 
and  this  is  Miss  Laura  Marston.  My  cousin  Randolph." 
There  were  two  other  ladies  to  whom  he  was  presented,  but 
Henry  was  too  much  confounded  with  the  scene  to  keep  any 
distinct  recollection  of  their  names.  He  bore  himself  through 
the  ceremony  with  an  ease  of  manner  highly  gratifying  to 
the  whole  company  ;  and  his  appearance  so  contrasted  with 
that  of  his  first  introduction,  that  Capt.  Marston  (as  we  shall 
hereafter  call  him)  was  as  much  confounded  as  Henry,  and 
suffered  hi-*  nephew  to  go  through  with  his  polite  attentions 


84  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

to  the  young  man,  without  any  interference  on  his  part ;  but 
no  sooner  had  he  completed  the  circuit  than  he  began  to  ask 
for  light  upon  the  mystery. 

"  Why,  where  was  it,  Master  Evart,  that  you  and  this 
young  gentleman  became  acquainted  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know,  uncle,  that  I  spent  a  few  days  at  Maple 
Cove.  It  is  a  terribly  lonely  place,  and  we  came  across  each 
other  in  the  woods,  or  rather  among  the  cedar-bushes.  We 
were  both  strangers  then,  and  so  we  had  a  long  talk  to 
gether.  I  told  him  all  about  myself,  and  he  told  rne  all  about 
himself,  and  we  became  so  fond  of  each  other  that  I  think 
we  are  going  to  be  first-rate  friends.  But  I  was  so  sorry, 
after  we  parted,  that  I  had  not  thought  of  inviting  you  to 
ride  with  me.  If  I  had  known  where  to  find  you  in  the 
town,  I  should  certainly  have  driven  over  and  seen  you  about 
it ;  but  never  mind,  we  will  keep  together  after  this." 

Capt.  Marston  could  remember  the  time  when  his  own 
heart  was  as  ready  as  the  hearts  of  these  youth  to  form 
friendships  from  an  hour's  acquaintance.  He  had  indeed 
learned  better  since,  but  he  was  not  disposed  just  then  to  say 
or  do  aught  to  spoil  the  pleasure  of  their  interview,  although 
he  well  knew  how  very  unsuitable  a  person  one  of  them  was 
to  be  an  intimate  companion  of  the  other. 

This  new  introduction  of  the  young  strangers,  although 
from  its  source  not  of  much  consequence,  had  an  effect  to 
make  all  parties  a  little  more  free,  and  especially  did  it  add 
to  the  comfort  of  Henry,  who  could  not  now  doubt  that  the 
young  man  who  had  on  their  first  interview  manifested  so 
much  interest  was  in  earnest  in  all  his  protestations  of  friend 
ship. 

The  storm  in  its  violence  was  of  short  duration  ;  but  the 
rain  continued  throughout  the  evening,  and  the  family  circle 
was  of  necessity  driven  from  its  usual  gathering  place  on 
summer  evenings  —  the  wide  piazza  —  to  the  parlor  and 
piano. 

"  Cousin  Evart,"  said  Janette,  "  you  must  not  ask  me  to 
play  that  tune."  Evart  had  a  particular  fancy  for  one  which 
Janette  played,  and  had  been  entreating  for  it  at  the  close 
of  one  of  her  pieces.  "  My  piano  is  so  out  of  tune,  and 
especially  the  keys  in  playing  that  one,  it  is  really  pairfful 
to  me  to  try  it.  Just  hear  that !  the  C  and  E  strings  are 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  85 

utterly  out  of  the  way ;  that  is  the  worst  about  a  piano  in 
the  country,  it  is  so  difficult  to  get  a  tuner." 

Henry  had  taken  a  seat  quietly  by  himself  at  some  distance 
from  the  circle  that  had  gathered  around  the  instrument,  but 
near  enough  to  hear  the  remarks  of  Miss  Janette.  He  arose, 
and  speaking  to  young  Marston,  asked  him  "  whether  they 
had  a  piano  key  ?" 

"  I  believe  so.     Cousin,  have  you  a  key  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  can  you  tune  it  ?" 

"  I  cannot,  but  perhaps  here  is  some  one  who  can ;"  and  he 
looked  inquiringly  at  Henry,  and  at  once  every  eye  was  di 
rected  that  way.  Henry  blushed  deeply,  for  he  did  not  anti 
cipate  that  his  question  would  have  been  thus  noticed. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  if  the  strings  are  not  broken,  and 
they  merely  need  screwing  up,  I  may  possibly  be  able  to 
make  them  a  little  better  than  they  now  are." 

The  piano  was  quickly  opened,  and  with  a  trembling  hand 
he  put  the  key  upon  the  faulty  strings.  All  made  way  for 
him,  and  stood  looking  with  some  astonishment  at  the  young 
operator,  and  perhaps  with  doubts  as  to  his  ability.  Some 
difficulty  occurred  at  first  from  the  fact  that  the  pegs  would 
not  retain  their  position  when  screwed  to  the  proper  tension. 
Henry,  however,  found  a  way  to  remedy  that  defect,  and 
after  trying  the  keys  sufficiently  to  satisfy  himself,  quietly 
resigned  his  seat,  and  turning  to  Miss  Janette — 

"  Will  you  please,  miss,  try  them  now  ?  Perhaps  they 
may  not  be  quite  in  order  yet." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  are  !  I  can  tell.  But  you  must  know  how 
to  play  if  you  know  how  to  tune  it." 

Henry  could  not  prevaricate,  but  he  was  really  very  much 
opposed  to  making  any  display  of  the  little  he  did  know. 
His  offer  to  correct  the  faulty  strings  was  made  without  any 
forethought,  and  from  a  desire  that  his  friend  Marston  should 
be  gratified  with  his  favorite  tune. 

"  I  have  not  received  any  instruction,  and  can  therefore 
play  but  a  few  simple  tunes.  It  would  please  me  much  that 
Mr.  Marston  should  hear  the  tune  he  has  asked  for." 

Janette,  without  any  more  ado,  proceeded  to  gratify  her 
cousin,  and  even,  at  his  request,  repeated  the  performance  ; 
while  Henry,  to  avoid  notice,  resumed  his  former  seat.  But 
Janette  had  no  idea  of  letting  him  off  so  easilv.  She  no 


86  TRTJE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

sooner  Lad  finished  the  tune  than  she  arose,  and  approaching 
Henry — 

"  Now  surely  you  will  not  refuse  !" 

He  made  no  opposition,  although  the  deep  color  that  suf 
fused  his  cheeks  convinced  all  present  that  he  yielded  only 
out  of  deference  to  her  who  had  asked  the  favor. 

He  made  no  excuses,  for  he  had  already  told  them  that  his 
skill  was  obtained  merely  by  his  own  efforts.  Nor  did  he 
make  any  flourishes  as  a  prelude  to  his  performance.  But 
commenced  at  once,  and  played  with  great  ease  of  manner  a 
simple  melody.  It  was  plaintive,  and  from  the  peculiar  cir 
cumstances  deeply  affected  all  who  heard  it.  It  seemed  to 
tell  the  story  of  his  life,  and  Mrs.  Marston  could  not  help 
saying  to  her  husband,  by  whose  side  she  sat,  in  a  whisper, 
""  That  poor  boy  !" 

Mr.  Marston  did  not  reply ;  but  the  scowl  upon  his  brow, 
and  his  compressed  lips,  told  that  his  heart  was  at  work  ; 
either  meditating  upon  the  past  of  his  own  life,  or  thinking 
in  what  way  he  could  do  something  to  benefit  one  so  strangely 
thrown  in  his  way.  Alas !  what  would  our  world  be,  were  it 
not  that  such  hearts  as  his  are  still  glowing,  amid  its  grasp 
ing  selfishness !  And,  blessed  be  God,  such  there  are,  scat 
tered  here  and  there;  lights  amid  the  darkness;  ready  to 
cheer  the  desponding,  to  assist  the  helpless,  to  guide  the  un 
certain  steps  of  resolute  youth,  and  start  them  fairly  in  their 
struggle  with  its  stern  realities — who  eat  not  their  bread 
alone,  but  stand  ever  ready  to  beckon  to  their  board  the 
stranger  and  the  fatherless.  Their  hoarded  treasures  gather 
no  rust,  and  their  warm  hearts  never  lose  the  freshness  and 
gushing  purity  of  early  life.  Man  is  their  brother !  The 
pangs  which  rend  his  spirit  they  feel  and  hasten  to  allay. 
And  thus  even  to  the  last,  when  gathering  years,  which  throw 
around  the  lover  of  the  glittering  one  an  adamantine  wall, 
that  shuts  him  off  from  joy  and  tender  sympathy  with  all  the 
world,  and  his  heart  shivers  within  its  sunless  bounds — warm 
rays  still  gladden  and  bright  smiles  beam  on  their  silvered 
heads,  and  tears  fall  freely  on  their  closing  graves ! 

It  was  early  dawn  when  Henry  awoke  the  next  morning, 
and  he  arose  and  prepared  himself  to  take  a  view  abroad  of 
the. extensive  scenery  which  lay  beneath  the  elevated  ground 
on  whu'h  the  Louse  WHS  located. 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  87 

The  skies  were  bright  and  the  air  fresh  and  fragrant,  and 
his  heart  was  more  buoyant  than  it  had  been  for  many 
months  before.  Such  the  effect  of  kindness  and  a  few  hours' 
welcome  among  the  truly  refined  in  heart  and  manners. 

The  mansion  itself  was  an  object  that  conveyed  to  the 
mind  thoughts  of  large-hearted  hospitality.  It  had  no  stately 
pillars  nor  unmeaning  finery.  It  was  no  lofty  building,  tow 
ering  in  cold  nakedness  to  show  its  owner's  wealth.  But  the 
house  and  its  appurtenances  seemed  to  have  been  made  for 
use.  On  every  side,  except  its  front,  buildings  jutted  from  it, 
that  had  been  added,  no  doubt,  as  its  owner  needed  more 
room.  All  were  in  keeping ;  a  regard  to  symmetry  had  been 
observed  that  made  the  whole  a  sightly  object.  Large  trees 
stood  here  and  there,  now  dripping  with  the  dew  of  morning, 
as  the  swarms  of  happy  birds  stirred  the  rich  foliage.  A  fine 
lawn  spread  far  away  in  front,  and  clumps  of  maple  studded 
it,  and  neat  stone  fences  bound  it  in.  On  either  side  behind 
lay  the  large  garden.  Trees,  too,  were  here,  and  long  wide 
walks  lined  with  summer  flowers.  All  this,  too,  seemed  more 
designed  for  use  than  show.  It  was  a  spot  where  sheltered 
nooks  could  be  found,  where  one  could  meditate  alone,  if  so 
disposed,  or  hold  sweet  converse  with  a  friend  upon  the  rustic 
seat. 

Henry  had  never  seen  so  much  of  simple  elegance  before ; 
and  he  thought — what  will  not  boys  think — "  that  if  he  lived 
to  be  a  man,  and,  after  years  of  toil,  should  earn  an  inde 
pendence,  that  he  would  have  just  such  a  place,  and  fix  it 
just  as  neatly;  and  what  comfort  he  would  take  in  sitting 
quietly  on  just  such  rustic  seats,  and  having  just  such  shady 
spots,  and  walks,  and  flowers." 

Nor  was  the  garden  all.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
between  the  hills,  on  north  and  south,  there  lay  spread  out 
an  extended  valley.  Woods,  rich  meadows,  a  winding  road, 
a  few  farmhouses,  and  the  blue  water  beyond  them  all, 
stretching  far  around.  Just  then,  to  crown  the  scene,  the 
sun  came  up,  and  his  cheerful  beams  spanned  the  area  before 
him  with  the  speed  of  thought,  lighting  the  valley  and 
brightening  the  hill-tops. 

Henry  and  his  friend  Evart — for  we  must  now  call  them 
friends — had  spent  some  time  together  the  previous  evening, 
and  k  had  been  agreed  that  Henry  should  take  a  seat  beside 


88  TKTJE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

him  in  his  gig,  and  they  were  to  have  a  nice  long  ride  to 
gether,  and  Henry,  at  his  friend's  earnest  entreaty,  had 
engaged  to  go  directly  to  his  home  with  him,  and  to  stay 
there  until  he  could  find  a  place ;  and  he  had  a  noble  heart, 
who  thus  clung  to  a  stranger  and  offered  his  aid  and  a  home 
to  one  who  had  nothing  to  give  in  return  but  his  warm  affec 
tion,  and  Henry  had  truly  given  him  that. 

Evart  had  made  all  his  arrangements  for  an  early  start. 
The  cheerful  breakfast  was  eaten,  and  the  servant  was  already 
making  preparations  to  bring  his  horse  to  the  door,  when  Mr. 
Marston  called  the  young  men  into  an  adjoining  room : 

"  I  fear,"  said  he,  "  that  I  shall  be  compelled  to  break  in 
upon  your  plan  for  a  journey  together  to  the  city.  It  is  time. 
I  know,  Evart,  for  you  to  be  at  home,  as  your  mother  is 
expecting  you." 

Evart's  fears  were  at  once  aroused  lest  he  should  be  de 
prived  of  his  companion. 

"  Oh,  but,  uncle,  you  know  mother  will  not  care.  A  day 
or  two  will  make  no  difference;  she  will  think  I  am  having 
a  nice  time  here,  and  " 

"  No,  no,  Evart !  That  will  not  do.  You  know  we  are 
always  glad  to  see  you,  and  to  have  you  stay  as  long  as  you 
can  ;  but  when  you  have  told  your  mother  that  you  would 
be  home  at  a  certain  time,  you  should  always,  except  some 
thing  prevents  which  you  cannot  overcome,  keep  your  word 
with  her;  begin  at  once  to  do  so  in  all  things,  and  she  will 
the  more  readily  yield  to  your  requests.  No,  you  had  better 
not  defer  your  return ;  you  will  probably  have  a  fair  day, 
and  will  reach  the  city  by  evening.  And,  as  to  this  young 
gentleman,  I  wish  to  get  a  little  better  acquainted  with  him, 
and  as  I  have  some  writing  to  do  in  which  he  can  assist  me 
very  much,  if  he  is  willing  to  remain  for  a  few  days  it  would 
be  quite  pleasing  to  me." 

"  Oh,  by  all  means,  sir !  If  I  can  be  of  any  service,  and 
it  is  your  wish.  Certainly,  sir !"  Henry  was  very  prompt 
with  his  reply ;  but  Captain  Marston  saw  plainly  from  the 
deep  color  of  his  countenance  that  he  was  sorely  disappointed. 
At  the  same  time  he  was  gratified  to  hear  his  ready  assent  to 
the  request  which  he  had  made.  Young  Marston  well  knew 
that  his  uncle's  decision  was  not  likely  to  be  reversed,  and 
therefore,  with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible,  prepared  to  yield. 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  89 

"  Well,  uncle,  I  shall  have  a  lonely  ride,  and  I  had  been 
anticipating  good  company ;  and  then,  too,  I  thought  how 
much  pleasanter  for  Henry  than  to  have  to  foot  it  all  the 
way." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  I  thank  you  very  much  !  But  I  shall 
not  mind  the  walk  at  all ;  two  or  three  days  will  take  me 
there  very  easily." 

Captain  Marston  was  about  to  reply  when  he  was  inter 
rupted  by  a  call  from  one  of  the  laborers,  and  the  two  youth 
were  left  to  say  their  adieu  alone. 

"  There  is  no  use  in  saying  anything  to  uncle  when  his 
mind  is  made  up.  He  has  been  so  accustomed  to  have  his 
orders  obeyed  on  board  ship,  that  it  is  a  word  and  a  blow 
with  him  " — while  saying  this  he  had  taken  Henry's  hand — 
"but  it  may  be  best  for  you.  I  am  sorry,  though.  But  mind 
and  come  right  to  our  house ;  remember,  you  have  said  you 
would.  Good  bye !" 

Henry  could  not  very  well  say  what  he  wished  to.  The 
frank  and  friendly  manner  of  young  Marston  had  won  his 
warmest  feelings.  He  felt  as  if  parting  with  a  friend  he  had 
loved  for  years — so  soon  in  youth's  lovely  season  does  the 
heart  yield  its  confidence  and  regard.  He  returned  the 
ardent  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  without  either  scrutinizing 
the  countenance  of  the  other,  they  separated.  Evart  went  to 
take  leave  of  his  relatives,  and  Henry  walked  into  the  hall, 
and  saw  through  the  open  door  the  establishment  of  his 
friend  in  readiness  for  departure. 

"  And  now,  Master  Henry,"  said  Captain  Marston,  as  he 
placed  bis  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  the  youth,  who  was 
standing  with  the  members  of  the  family,  watching  through 
the  openings  in  the  avenue  the  receding  carriage  of  Evart, 
"  come  with  me,  if  you  please ;  I  wish  to  have  a  word  with 
you." 

Henry  immediately  followed  through  the  wide  hall  into  a 
narrower  passage,  and  from  thence  down  a  few  steps,  and  was 
introduced  into  a  very  delightful  room  of  small  dimensions, 
when  compared  with  those  he  had  already  seen,  but  sur 
rounded  with  shrubbery  and  flowers,  and  a  door  opening  from 
it  upon  a  wide  low  stoop,  and  one  of  the  garden  walks 
passing  immediately  before  it.  He  recognized  it  as  one  of 
those  additions  to  the  house  which  he  had  noticed  when  in  the 


90  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST  ;    OR, 

garden  that  morning.  And  he  remembered  how  pleasant  he 
thought  that  room  must  be. 

41  This  is  my  office,  as  I  generally  call  it ;  but  some  of  them 
call  it  the  study.  Take  that  seat ;  I  want  to  have  a  little 
chat  with  you."  And  Henry  did  as  he  was  bidden,  while 
Captain  Marston  settled  himself  in  a  large  arm-chair. 

"  It  was  for  no  purpose  of  disappointing  either  you  or  my 
nephew,  that  I  have  thought  proper  to  change  your  plans." 
Henry  would  have  said  something  in  order  to  assure  him 
that  he,  for  his  part,  was  perfectly  satisfied  of  that.  But  two 
reasons  just  then  operated  to  keep  him  silent.  One  was, 
that  the  gentleman,  when  conversing,  spoke  in  rather  a  stern 
tone  of  voice,  and  quite  rapidly,  and  Henry  feared  to  inter 
rupt  him.  And  another  was,  that  immediately  opposite  to 
where  he  sat  there  hung  upon  the  wall  a  small  portrait  of  a 
young  lady,  and  its  features  were  so  familiar  to  him  that  his 
eye  involuntarily  fastened  upon  it;  and  so  strangely  was  he 
affected,  that  he  was  like  to  have  lost  altogether  what 
was  said  to  him.  By  a  violent  effort,  however,  he  com 
manded  his  feelings.  "  But  sometimes  those  of  us  who  are 
older,  and  have  experience  to  assist  our  judgment,  come  to 
very  different  conclusions  from  those  who  are  just  beginning 
life.  My  nephew,  Evart,  is  a  noble-minded  youth,  very 
generous,  and  also  a  little  fanciful,  perhaps,  though  not  more 
so  than  many  of  his  age.  He  is  wealthy,  or  he  will  be  so  when 
he  comes  of  age.  At  present  he  has  all  that  a  young  man 
ought  to  spend  ;  but  I  guess  not  as  much  as  he  does  spend ; 
his  mother,  no  doubt,  supplies  his  demands  when  they  get 
beyond  his  income.  Like  all  mothers,  she  has  no  heart  to 
deny  her  sou  when  she  ought  to  do  so.  You  hear  me,  Master 
Henry?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir  J" 

"  For  a  youth  with  his  disposition  to  be  thus  situated,  in  a 
city  where  there  are  thousands  of  idle  scamps  ready  to  get 
into  his  good  graces  and  lead  him  into  all  kinds  of  evil,  it  is 
a  sad,  sad  thing.  He  has  not  much  taste  for  study  for  its 
own  sake,  and  as  for  learning  a  profession — why  he  says, 
'  Where  is  the  use  ?  I  shall  have  money  enough.  Why 
should  I  bother  myself  about  such  matters  ?'  And  it  is  the 
same  if  he  is  urged  to  learn  business :  '  Where  is  the  use  ? 
I  do  not  care  to  have  any  more  money  ;  I  shall  have  enough.' 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  91 

And  in  one  sense  he  is  right.  He  will  have  enough,  and 
more  than  any  man  ought  to  spend.  But  if  he  could  see 
things  properly  he  would  realize  that  a  man  cannot  be  happy 
without  some  absorbing  object,  some  useful  calling  to  engage 
the  mind.  But,  poor  fellow,  as  he  is  situated,  there  is  no 
motive  strong  enough  to  urge  him  on.  I  wish  it  was  not  so ; 
but  it  is  a  matter  beyond  my  control,  and  I  have  many  fears 
as  to  what  the  end  may  be.  But  you,  Master  Henry,  are 
beginning  the  world  with  nothing ;  you  have  nothing,  as  I 
understand,  but  your  own  energies  to  depend  on  ?  Is  it 
not  so  ?" 

"  I  have  nothing  else,  sir." 

"  Just  so.  Your  character,  then,  will  be  of  great  conse 
quence  to  you.  I  mean  not  only  your  character  for  integrity 
— for  perfect  truthfulness  ;  but  also  for  industry  and  attention 
— for  knowing  all  the  little  secrets  of  your  trade,  and  for 
economy.  A  great  intimacy  between  you  and  one  situated 
as  Evart  is,  would  be  a  serious  damage  to  you.  You  under 
stand  me,  Henry  ?" 

"  I  think  I  do,  sir." 

"  Evart  means  well  enough,  no  doubt ;  but  keep  in  mind 
what  I  say.  His  friendship  may  do  you  more  harm  than 
good." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  so,  sir." 

"  And  I  am  sorry  to  feel  obliged  to  say  anything  that  ap 
pears  like  throwing  cold  water  upon  your  friendly  feelings  for 
each  other ;  but  in  justice  to  you,  I  feel  bound  to  set  the 
truth  before  you.  And  now,  as  to  the  work  which  I  wish 
done ;  when  you  have  looked  round  a  little  and  feel  like 
going  to  work,  just  let  me  know." 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  begin  this  moment,  sir,  if  you 
are." 

Without  any  more  words,  the  gentleman  took  some  papers 
from  his  desk  and  spreading  them  out — 

"  I  wish  to  have  these  papers  copied  carefully,  and  let  the 
writing  be  as  distinct  as  possible.  Take  your  own  time ;  and 
when  you  get  tired  just  put  them  into  this  drawer,  so  that 
you  will  know  where  to  find  them  when  you  are  ready  to 
begin  again.  It  may  occupy  you  some  days,  and,  in  conse 
quence,  you  may  not  get  to  the  city  quite  as  soon  as  you  ex 
pected  ;  yet,  as  it  is  to  be  a  life  business  with  you  when 


92  TRUE  TO  THE  LAST;   OB, 

you  do  get  there,  a  few  days  sooner  or  later  will  not  be 
material." 

And  thus  saying,  he  arose  and  left  Henry  to  commence  his 
work.  Captain  Marston  had  taken  a  real  interest  in  the  youth, 
and  he  wished  to  test  him  on  several  points,  that  he  might 
come  to  a  more  clear  decision  as  to  "what  way  he  could  best 
aid  him,  and  to  become  acquainted  with  his  peculiar  charac 
teristics. 

All  of  us  who  are  somewhat  advanced  in  life,  have,  no 
doubt,  experienced  in  our  youth  the  happiness  which  springs 
from  being  put  for  the  first  time  to  some  work  of  a  responsi 
ble  nature,  and  in  which  was  involved  the  test  of  our  ability. 
It  may  not  seem  much  that  Henry  was  set  merely  at  copying 
some  papers ;  but  to  him  it  was  the  beginning  of  his  life's 
business.  He  felt  it  to  be  so.  It  was  something  with  which 
he  was  to  take  much  care ;  it  was  something  necessary  to  be 
done,  and  he  resolved  that  no  pains  should  be  spared  on  his 
part,  and  no  time  wasted.  He  would  not  even  pause  to  ex 
amine  the  picture  which  had  at  first  sight  so  riveted  his 
attention. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CAPTAIN  MARSTON  had  indeed,  as  he  said,  battled  with 
many  a  storm,  not  only  on  the  ocean,  but  on  land.  He  had 
been  left  with  an  only  brother,  in  early  life,  to  seek  their  own 
living  as  they  best  could.  Their  parentage  was  respectable, 
but  when  quite  young  the  boys  were  left  orphans,  and  scorn 
ing  a  dependence  upon  relatives,  they  resolved  to  sustain 
themselves.  The  elder  of  the  two  found  a  situation  in  a  store, 
and  in  time  became  a  wealthy  merchant,  and  dying,  left,  as 
has  been  said,  a  large  fortune  to  his  two  children,  of  whom 
the  youth  Evart  Marston  was  one. 

Frank,  the  younger  brother,  chose  the  sea  for  his  profes 
sion,  and  obtained,  through  the  influence  of  a  friend,  a  mid 
shipman's  commission  in  the  navy.  In  this  he  continued 
until  he  gained  the  rank  of  first-lieutenant,  and  then  resigned 
in  order  that  he  might  take  command  of  a  merchant  ship  in 
the  China  trade.  With  a  keen  judgment,  and  an  ardent 
spirit  for  enterprise,  he  engaged  more  largely  in  shipments 
for  his  own  account  than  masters  of  vessels  usually  do,  and 
after  several  prosperous  voyages  connected  himself  with  a 
large  commission  house  in  Philadelphia.  In  this,  prosperity 
also  attended  him,  and  at  the  age  of  forty-five,  he  retired  from 
all  regular  business,  and  used  his  funds,  as  his  judgment 
dictated,  by  investments  in  real  estate  in  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  occasionally  in  shipments  abroad  that  offered  a  fair 
prospect  of  profit. 

This  latter  branch  of  business  he  was  still  engaged  in  when 
introduced  to  the  reader. 

He  had  left  the  sea  as  a  profession  before  he  married,  and 
was,  of  course,  somewhat  advanced  in  life.  Mrs.  Marston 
belonged  to  one  of  the  aristocratic  families  that  were  settled 
in  the  county  of  Westchester.  When  or  how  they  met  is  of  no 
consequence.  She  was  much  younger  than  Captain  Marston, 
a  lady  of  great  beauty,  and  highly  accomplished.  The  choice 
she  had  made  was  quite  agreeable  to  her  father,  who  was  her 
only  surviving  pareut ;  but  very  much  against  the  will  of  her 


94:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OE, 

elder  sister.  This  lady  was  a  daughter  by  a  previous  mar 
riage,  and  therefore  a  half-sister  to  Mrs.  Marston.  She  had 
formed  certain  notions  of  respectability,  which  she  held  to 
with  a  grasp  which  no  argument  could  affect ;  and  that  one  so 
nearly  related  to  her  should,  as  she  said,  "  throw  herself  away 
upon  a  mere  sea  captain,"  was  to  her  a  sin  never  to  be  par 
doned.  Captain  Marston  was,  however,  by  no  means  a  mere 
sea  captain.  His  mind  was  well  cultivated,  his  heart  noble  and 
generous,  and  his  manners  highly  dignified  and  courteous. 
But  all  these  were  as  naught  to  this  elder  sister ;  any  obsta 
cle  she  could  throw  in  the  way  of  the  union  was  offered,  even 
to  rude  treatment  and  threats  of  vengeance. 

But  when  she  found  that  her  father  would  be  lord  and 
master  in  his  own  domain,  and  that,  in  spite  of  all  her  oppo 
sition,  the  union  was  to  take  place,  and  to  be  celebrated  with 
much  parade,  she  left  her  home,  and  took  up  her  abode  with 
a  maiden  aunt  in  the  vicinity,  whose  views  coincided  with  her 
own,  and  who,  it  is  said,  secretly  fanned  the  wicked  flame  in 
the  breast  of  her  niece.  "Never  again,"  she  said,  "should 
her  feet  tread  within  the  walls  of  a  house  polluted  as  that  had 
been,  by  a  festival  in  honor  of  one  whose  base  views  could 
lead  her  to  throw  herself  away  upon  one  of  the  ruff-scuff  of 
the  earth !"  We  are  not  answerable  for  the  language  of  the 
lady,  and  quote  it  merely  to  show  the  quality  of  her  mind : 
"And  more  than  this,  a  curse  shall  follow  it?' 

The  union  was  consummated,  and  happiness  was  the  at 
tendant  of  the  married  pair,  not  only  for  the  first  few  months, 
but  for  the  whole  period  they  bad  lived  together,  now  seven 
teen  years.  There  had,  indeed,  been  one  dark  spot  on  their 
journey !  It  had  not  injured  their  love  for  each  other,  but, 
by  exciting  their  mutual  sympathies  for  one  common  sorrow, 
had  tended  to  bind  them  more  closely  together. 

Their  first  babe,  as  lovely  an  object  as  a  parent's  eye  could 
look  upon,  had  been  snatched  from  them  when  a  few  months 
old,  in  a  manner  more  galling  to  a  parent's  heart  than  if  death 
had  taken  the  spirit  of  the  lovely  being,  and  left  them  the 
lifeless  body.  It  was  on  a  summer  evening ;  the  happy  pa 
rents  had  gone  to  take  a  short  ride  and  spend  a  few  hours 
with  a  friend.  The  little  one  had  been  left  by  its  nurse 
asleep  in  the  cradle,  in  a  room  on  the  ground  floor.  She  had 
not  left  it  long,  or  so  she  said — but  her  mind  was  so  weak- 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  95 

ened  by  the  convulsions  which  almost  immediately  ensued, 
that  memory  with  her  had  lost  its  power — but  when  she  did 
return,  the  little  sleeper  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  The 
agony  of  the  parents  cannot  be  told.  Imagination  may 
faintly  portray  upon  the  mind  a  glimmer  of  the  reality  ;  but 
imagination  has  no  words  that  can  reveal  to  others  such  ter 
rible,  such  withering  grief! 

Every  effort,  at  the  instant  the  catastrophe  was  known  to 
the  parents,  was  made,  that  was  in  the  power  of  an  outraged 
neighborhood  to  make.  Officers  of  justice  were  empowered 
to  search  every  house  in  the  vicinity,  and  men  on  horseback 
scoured  the  highways  and  lanes  and  woods.  But  all  in  vain ! 

It  was  not  the  period  of  railroads  and  magnetic  telegraphs ; 
but  if  willing  hearts  and  swift  riders  could  have  brought  back 
the  lost  treasure,  it  would  have  been  accomplished. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  new  treasures  were  added  to  them  in 
three  bright  and  fair  children  ;  but  the  sore  in  the  parents' 
hearts  had  never  healed.  Could  they  but  have  known  that 
their  lost  lamb  had  breathed  its  last,  that  its  sorrowful  path 
in  life  had  ended,  there  would  have  been  an  alleviation  of 
their  anguish,  even  could  they  never  know  where  its  dust 
reposed ;  but  imagination  now  was  ever  picturing  the  loved 
one  as  tempest-tossed,  and  perhaps  an  outcast  under  unhal 
lowed  influences,  preparing  for  a  life  of  sin  and  wretchedness. 

Studiously  had  they  avoided  giving  any  information  to 
their  children  on  the  painful  subject ;  but  whisperings  reached 
their  ears  from  others,  and  all  the  parents  could  do  was  to 
forbid  any  allusions  among  themselves  to  the  sad  event. 

But  they  had  never  given  up  the  hope  of  one  day  finding 
their  lost  one,  although  every  effort,  hitherto,  had  been  fruit 
less. 

A  few  days  after  Henry  had  been  an  inmate  of  their  dwell 
ing,  Mrs.  Marston  requested  her  husband  to  come  with  her 
into  a  room  that  was  not  often  visited  by  the  family ;  she 
wished  to  communicate  with  him  alone,  and  without  fear  of 
interruption. 

"  I  am  almost  afraid,  dear  husband,"  began  Mrs.  Marston, 
"  that  you  will  think  me  foolish  ?  but  I  must  let  out  rny  feel 
ings  to  you.  I  had  some  conversation  with  Henry  this  morn 
ing,  and  it  very  strangely  led  to  a  subject  which  you  and  1 
have  so  long  had  upon  our  hearts." 


96  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OK, 

Mr.  Marston  looked  much  surprised  ;  but  the  tones  of  his 
voice  were  lender,  as  they  always  were  in  addressing  her 
whom  he  so  much  loved. 

"Not  about ?  You  surely  have  not  mentioned  anything 

to  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  no !  my  dear,  of  course  not ;  but  let  me  tell  you :  I 
walked  into  the  room,  as  I  usually  do,  to  see  that  Margaret 
had  put  things  in  proper  order.  Henry  was  busy  at  his  work, 
and  I  spoke  a  few  pleasant  words  to  him,  when,  as  he  turned 
to  reply,  I  saw  his  eye  glance  towards  that  picture  of  mine 
which  you  keep  so  choice  there  in  your  room." 

"  I  have  noticed  how  attracted  he  is  by  that  likeness  ;  he 
was*  so  the  first  time  I  took  him  into  that  room,  and  ho  gazed 
at  it  so  earnestly  while  I  was  conversing  with  him,  that  I 
had  to  ask,  once  or  twice,  whether  he  understood  what  I  was 
saying." 

"I  think  his  curiosity  has  been  greatly  excited,  and  that 
from  the  first  he  has  been  anxious  to  know  for  whom  it  was 
intended.  I  saw,  from  his  inquiring  glance  at  me  and  then 
at  the  picture,  that  he  was  trying  to  reconcile  my  counte 
nance  with  that." 

"  He  might  easily  do  that."  * 

"  Not  so  easily,  dear  husband !  I  am  twenty  years  older 
than  I  was  then ;  my  hair  does  not  curl  as  it  did  then,  and 
the  style  of  dressing  it  has  altered. 

"  I  perceived  his  curiosity,  and  asked — '  Have  you  ever 
seen  any  one  whom  that  resembles,  Henry?'  The  poor  fel 
low  blushed  deeply ;  he  had  not  been  conscious,  I  suppose, 
how  inquiring  his  look  had  been  ;  after  a  moment,  he  replied : 

"'I  thought  just  then,  and  at  several  other  times,  Mrs. 
Marston,  that  it  looked  like  you  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  a  per 
fect  likeness  of  a  young  lady  I  know.  Sometimes  it  almost 
startles  me  when  I  cast  a  glance  at  it,  as  if  she  was  about  to 
speak  to  me.' 

"  '  The  picture  was  taken  for  me,  Henry,  when  I  was  fifteen 
years  of  age!  How  old  is  the  young  lady  you  speak  of?" 

"  '  She  is  about  fifteen,  I  believe,  ma'm.' 

"  '  Where  does  she  live,  Henry  ?' 

" '  She  lives  at  Stratton,  a  few  miles  from  where  I  lived.' 

"  '  Are  her  parents  living  ?' 

" '  No,  ma'm ;  she  lives  with  her  uncle,  Esquire  Thompson.' 


ALONE   ON   A    WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  97 

"  I  felt  so  faint  just  then,  that  I  had  to  take  a  seat  and  hold 
up  the  paper  before  rny  face,  as  though  I  was  about  to  look 
over  it,  when  Henry  again  commenced  writing;  in  a  few 
moments,  I  asked: 

"  '  How  long  since  you  have  seen  that  young  lady  ?' 

"  He  immediately  turned  towards  me,  and  smiling,  replied : 

"  '  Only  a  few  days  ago,  ma'm." 

" '  Then  I  may  suppose  this  young  lady  has  made  a  strong 
impression  on  your  mind  !  and  you  think  that  portrait  resem 
bles  her  ?' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  ma'm  !  The  same  curling  hair,  the  same  dark 
eyes,  and  the  same  mouth,  and  then  almost  the  same  frown. 
If  you  notice,  Mrs.  Marston,  there  is  a  little  frown  on  this.' 

"  I  walked  up  to  gratify  the  boy,  for  he  was  so  engaged — 
and  affected  to  notice  it,  but  my  heart  beat  so  violently  that 
I  was  obliged  to  say  something  by  way  of  changing  the  sub 
ject,  and  left  the  room.  Oh  !  my  dear  husband,  what  does  it 
mean  ?" 

"  It  means  nothing,  dear  Caroline,  but  that  your  mind  is  so 
alive  to  this  subject,  that  you  are  ready  to  catch  at  any  pos 
sibility,  however  improbable  it  may  be !  In  this  case,  you 
see,  although  she  has  no  parents,  she  has  an  uncle,  and  aunt, 
and  cousins.  No,  my  dear ;  it  seems  to  me  we  have  done  all 
that  can  be  done.  It  would  be  better  for  us  both  to  try  and 
let  the  matter  rest.  Thinking  of  it  only  harrows  up  our 
minds.  Again  and  again  have  we  had  some  hope  excited — 
only  to  be  disappointed.  Whoever  has  done  the  deed  has 
truly  found  out  an  exquisite  torture  for  a  parent's  heart!  But, 
as  I  believe  in  a  righteous  God,  I  have  strong  faith  that,  al 
though  we  may  never  find  our  child,  some  terrible  judgment 
will  yet  overtake  the  guilty  one." 

"  But  my  dear  husband,  it  seems  to  me  that  every  shadow 
of  a  possibility  should  be  examined  by  us.  There  is  certainly 
something  very  strange  in  the  impression  which  has  been 
made  upon  the  mind  of  that  boy !  and  then  the  age  too — 
only  think  of  that — and  no  parents  living !  How  do  we  cer 
tainly  know  whether  the  gentleman  Henry  speaks  of  is  really 
her  uncle — such  titles  are  often  used  by  courtesy,  you 
know  !" 

Mr.  Marston  knew  all  that,  and  his  own  interest  was  as 
deeply  excited  as  that  of  his  lady,  but  he  did  not  wish  to  en- 

5 


98  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OE, 

courage  the  faintest  hope  in  her  mind,  that  might  only  end  as 
all  their  former  hopes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  is  true ;  but  such  things,  you  know, 
are  not  generally  secrets ;  the  facts  leak  out.  If  Henry  was 
intimate  in  the  family,  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  known  had 
there  been  no  real  relationship.  But  still,  dear  Caroline,  we  will 
not  let  even  this  shadow  of  hope  pass  without  further  inquiry. 
Our  friend  Vernon,  you  know,  passes  his  summers  there,  or 
near  there,  I  will  write  to  him.  Vernou  has  no  particular 
business  of  his  own,  without  it  is  that  of  trying  to  do  all  the 
good  he  can  in  the  world." 

"  I  thought,  my  dear,  you  had  a  poor  opinion  of  him  ;  you 
have  sometimes  spoken  rather  disparagingly  of  him !  I  mean 
to  me." 

"  Oh  well,  I  know  there  have  been  times  when  I  have  been 
vexed  by  his  pertinacity  in  boring  me  with  his  Methodism 
or  Calvinism,  or  whatever  it  is  !  But  I  believe  he  is  very  sin 
cere  in  his  views,  and  has  a  strong  desire  for  my  good,  and  he 
has  tried  to  convince  me  that  this  trial  is  for  my  benefit !  It 
the  object  of  it  is  to  poison  all  our  enjoyments,  and  spoil  what 
little  comfort  we  might  have  from  them,  it  certainly  accom 
plishes  that." 

Mrs.  Marston  would  have  replied,  but  she  knew  that  her 
husband's  heart  would  be  more  likely  to  yield  to  its  own  sug 
gestions  on  the  great  subject  which  he  had  touched  upon, 
than  to  anything  another  would  say;  and  her  own  inind  was 
only  just  beginning  to  feel  the  healthful  touch  of  a  divine 
influence. 

"  You  will  write  to  Vernon,  then,  at  once  ?" 

"  I  certainly  will.  But  you  will  see,  Caroline,  that  its  only 
effect  will  be,  to  bring  a  long  letter  on  my  obligations  of  sub 
mission,  and  all  that." 

Captain  Marston's  object  having  been  accomplished  in  de 
taining  Henry,  and  having  satisfied  himself  that  the  boy  had 
the  right  spirit  in  him,  to  make  his  way  when  once  a  start 
could  be  given  him,  he  wrote  a  letter  of  introduction  to  a  firm 
in  Broadway,  engaged  in  the  drygoods  business,  stating  what 
he  believed  concerning  the  youth,  and  saying  that  it  would 
confer  a  particular  favor  upon  himself  if  a  berth  could  be 
given  to  the  boy  in  their  store,  or  if  not,  if  they  would  lend  a 
helping  hand  in  procuring  a  situation  for  him. 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  99 

Henry  was  yet  a  boy,  and  we  must  not  charge  him  with 
weakness  if,  when  he  was  taking  his  last  leave  of  those  who 
had  treated  him  with  such  kindness,  his  only  power  of  saying 
"  good  bye  "  was  with  the  grasp  of  his  hand,  a  flushed  face 
and  the  silent  tear. 

Mr.  Marston,  without  any  notice  to  Henry,  had  ordered 
his  own  horse  and  carriage  brought  to  the  door,  while  the 
latter  was  getting  ready  to  depart. 

"  Now  jump  in,  my  boy." 

Henry  was  surprised,  and  looked  in  astonishment  at  Cap 
tain  Marston,  who  sat  there  holding  the  reins. 

"  Jump  in — I  am  going  to  take  you  to  the  tavern  from 
whence  the  stage  starts.  Have  you  said  good  bye  to  all  ?" 

Henry  made  no  reply,  but  did  as  requested,  and  as  he 
looked  round  and  beheld  hands  waving  in  kindness,  and  waft 
ing  blessings  upon  him,  his  overcharged  feelings  gave  way ! 
He  was  a  little  child  again ;  and  the  strong  heart  beside  him 
would  have  been  much  relieved  could  it  have  found  vent  for 
its  sympathies  in  the  same  way. 

But  little  was  said  until  they  were  about  to  separate,  when 
the  gentleman  remarked  to  Henry, 

"  Your  stage  fare  is  paid — you  know  I  am  indebted  to  you 
for  several  days'  work." 

"  Please  sir,  do  not  speak  of  indebtedness  to  me  !  It  has 
only  been  a  pleasure — your  kindness  can  never  be  repaid  by 
me  so  long  as  I  live." 

"  But  Henry,  you  are  now  going  to  a  place  where  you  will 
find  that  your  wants  can  only  be  supplied  by  money  !  I  need 
not  tell  you  to  be  prudent  in  spending  it,  for  I  am  convinced 
you  are  so  disposed,  but  I  should  like  to  know  how  you  are 
off  for  funds — you  may  not  be  in  the  way  of  earning  anything 
for  some  time. 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  am  well  off!     I  have  nearly  twenty  dollars." 

"  Well,  that  is  more  than  I  had,  when  in  your  situation, 
but  you  can  add  this  to  your  little  stock,"  handing  Henry  a 
folded  bill.  "  Keep  up  good  courage — avoid  bad  company — 

pay  strict  attention  to  your  business,  and  with with  a 

blessing,  you  will  do  well,  I  have  no  doubt." 

If  Captain  Marston  had  wanted  any  reward  for  what  he 
had  done  to  cheer  the  heart  of  this  young  stranger,  be  must 
have  been  fully  satisfied  as  he  felt  the  clinging  grasp  of  his 


100  TKTJE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

hand,  and  met  his  kindling  eye !  The  stage  was  just  starting 
— Henry  took  his  seat.  The  horn  sent  forth  its  shrill  blast ; 
the  long  lash  cracked  over  the  leaders'  heads,  and  with  a  sud 
den  bound  the  swinging  vehicle  flew  from  the  door,  and  Henry 
was  once  more  alone  !  A  stranger  to  those  about  him,  and 
to  those  among  whom  he  expected  to  be  cast. 


CHAPTER   Vlli. 

WE  left  poor  Louise  in  the  shanty  of  Caroline,  with  Mr 
Vernon  standing  beside  her  bed,  and  ready  to  hear  what  ur 
gent  request  she  had  to  make. 

As  soon  as  she  was  satisfied  that  her  uncle  and  Mr.  Vernon 
had  departed,  she  turned  to  Caroline. 

"  That  will  do  now — thank  you  !  You  are  very  kind — that 
will  do  now  !  But  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Vernon  alone  a  few 
minutes — you  know  him  well — and  that  I  shall  not  be  very 
likely  to  make  any  plans  with  him  which  you  may  not  ap 
prove." 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  Mr.  Vernon  ain't  a  man  who  would  give 
wrong  advice  to  young  or  old.  I  will  go  out,  darling,  and 
be  by  the  spring — that  is  my  seat  always  when  the  wea 
ther  will  allow,  and  Mr.  Vernon  will  call  me  when  I  am 
wanted." 

The  gentleman  took  his  seat  by  the  side  of  the  young  girl, 
and  in  a  mild  voice  asked — 

"  What  request  have  you  to  make,  Miss  Louise  ?  What  is 
there  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know  that  you  can  do  anything  for  me,  Mr. 
Vernon  !  But  I  have  many  times  wished  for  an  opportunity 
to  talk  with  you.  Ob,  sir !  I  want  a  friend — an  unselfish 
friend ;  one  who  is  wise  enough  to  direct  me,  and  able  to  do 
something  for  me.  I  am  very  unhappy !  I  am  wretched ! 
It  would  have  been  much  better  for  me  that  this  fall  had  put 
an  end  to  my  existence !" 

"  Stop,  stop,  Louise  !  If  you  think  my  advice  of  any  con 
sequence,  I  would  say  to  you :  never,  never  indulge  such 
feelings  as  you  have  now  expressed.  They  are  very  wrong  ; 
they  manifest  a  rebellious,  ungrateful  spirit.  You  are  not,  in 
all  probability,  in  a  fit  condition  to  leave  the  world.  Life  is 
a  blessing ;  it  is  designed  as  such.  And  there  are  light  and 
peace  to  be  enjoyed,  even  under  the  darkest  dispensations  of 
Divine  Providence,  when  the  heart  yields  submissively  to  His 
will." 

101 


102  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  ;   OB, 

"Oh,  I  suppose  it  is  wrong!  But  you  do  not  know  how 
anhappy  I  am !" 

'•I  do  not,  indeed,  know  your  cause  of  grief;  and,  situated 
as  you  are,  under  the  care  of  near  relatives,  abundantly  able 
and,  no  doubt,  willing  to  aid  and  comfort  you,  it  might  not 
be  proper  that  a  stranger  to  you,  as  I  am  comparatively, 
should  be  intrusted  with  your  confidence." 

'•  But,  sir,  what  if  I  had  no  relations  ?" 

"  That  would  be  different.  But  no  supposition  of  that  kind 
is  allowable  in  your  case." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is." 

"  Is  not  Esquire  Thompson  your  uncle !" 

"No,  sir." 

"  Nor  Mrs.  Thompson  your  aunt  ?" 

"  No,  sir,  they  are  neither  of  them  any  relation  to  me ; 
nor  is  any  other  human  being,  that  I  know  of,  in  this  world." 

And  the  agitated  girl  covered  her  face  and  burst  into  tears. 
Mr.  Vernon,  for  the  first  time  since  the  interview,  called  to 
mind  a  rumor  which  once  reached  him — how,  he  did  not  re 
member — "That  Louise  was  not  a  relative  of  the  family  in 
which  she  lived."  He  waited  until  the  burst  of  grief  had 
subsided,  and  then  replied  : 

"I  fear,  my  dear  child,  that  you  have  chosen  a  wrong  time 
to  make  any  communication  in  reference  to  a  subject  that  is 
calculated  to  excite  you.  Let  me  add  my  advice  to  that  of 
the  doctor,  that  you  keep  quiet ;  compose  your  feelings.  You 
have  received  quite  a  shock  from  this  fall,  and  excitement 
may  retard  your  recovery.  I  should  be  very  sorry  if  my 
assent  to  your  wish  should  prove  the  means  of  preventing 
your  removal  to  your  home  this  afternoon." 

Louise  grasped  the  arm  of  Mr.  Vernon,  and  fixed  her  eye 
upon  him  with  such  a  mingled  expression  of  earnestness  and 
sorrow,  that  he  could  not  but  feel  a  deep  interest,  and  a  strong 
desire  to  relieve  her  mind,  if  in  his  power  to  do  so. 

"  I  will  be  perfectly  calm,  and  I  will  not  talk  much ;  only 
hear  me  a  few  words.  I  want  to  accomplish  two  things : 
First,  I  wish  to  go  away  from  rny  present  home.  I  wish  to 
go  where  I  shall  not  be  known ;  I  care  not  what  situation  I 
have,  only  to  be  where  I  shall  not  be  conscious  that  those 
about  me  know  or  care  from  whence  I  came,  to  whom  I  be 
long,  or  what  becomes  of  me.  I  cannot,  oh !  I  cannot  live 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         103 

and  mingle  with  those  as  my  equals,  who  have  in  their  minds 
continually  the  dreadful  fact,  that  I  may  be  the  child  of  out 
casts,  of  felons,  of  beggars,  or  of  those  who  may  have  expi 
ated  their  crimes  upon  the  gallows !  I  cannot,  I  cannot,  I 
will  not  live  thus !  T  care  not  for  the  property ;  it  can  do 
me  no  good.  I  had  rather  be  among  the  poor." 

Mr.  Vernon  was  spell-bound.  Her  words  came  forth  in 
a  quiet  manner,  perfectly  in  contrast  with  the  thrilling  emo 
tions  they  conveyed  ;  he  felt  that  there  was  such  harrowing 
truth  in  what  she  said  ;  such  a  portraying  of  inner  grief,  as 
in  youth  or  age  demanded  sympathy.  He  pressed  her  hand. 

"  Be  calm  as  you  can.  Tell  me  all  you  wish  ;  you  shall 
find  in  me  a  friend.  I  feel  for  you;  I  will  aid  you  all  in  my 
power.  Be  patient,  too  ;  do  nothing  rashly  ;  submit,  quietly 
as  you  can,  to  your  present  trials.  Have  you  anything  fur 
ther  that  you  wish  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"Yes.  I  said  there  were  two  things  I  wished  to  accom 
plish  :  one  of  these  I  have  told  you.  The  other  is  of  more 
consequence  still.  You  know  this  Caroline  Jeralman  ?  she 
esteems  you  very  highly.  You  have  more  power  over  her,  I 
am  sure,  than  any  one  else." 

"  I  have  always  treated  Caroline  with  kindness ;  I  have  a 
great  pity  for  her.  She  is,  at  times,  very  unhappy ;  there  is 
some  weight  upon  her  mind  ;  so  it  seems  to  me.  She  is  dis 
posed  to  melancholy  ;  and  I  have  had  fears,  that  in  some  of 
those  turns,  she  might  be  tempted  to  take  her  own  life.  I 
fear  there  is  some  part  of  her  history  that  will  not  bear  dwell 
ing  upon  ;  but  have  never  attempted  to  pry  into  it,  and  only 
endeavored  to  direct  her  to  the  true  source  of  comfort  for  the 
sinful  and  the  sorrowing."  ;  . 

"  I  have  reasons  for  believing,  Mr.  Vernon,  that  she  knows 
more  about  me  than  any  one  else  does;  she  has  always  been 
strangely  meddlesome  in  my  affairs ;  in  some  way  she  has 
contrived  to  keep  around  me,  wherever  I  am.  When  in  New 
York — so  far  back  as  I  can  remember  anything — she  used  to 
come,  every  day  or  two,  where  I  lived  ;  and  no  sooner  had 
I  been  put  to  school  at  Melton,  than  I  found  she  was  living, 
not  far  off,  with  an  old  woman  in  the  neighborhood,  and  she 
would  contrive,  in  some  way,  to  sec  me  whenever  I  walked 
abroad  ;  and  since  I  have  been  here,  she  has  taken  possession 
of  this  shanty,  and  pursues  the  same  course.  And  sometimes 


104:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

she  has  dropped  such  expressions  as  these :  '  You  are  not  so 
much  alone  in  the  world  as  you  think  you  are;'  and  when, 
on  my  knees,  I  have  begged  her  to  tell  me,  if  she  did  know 
anything  about  me,  she  would  say  :  'Sometimes  it  is  not  best 
to  know  about  those  we  sprang  from.'  I  feel  very  sure,  sir, 
that  she  does  know  something  about  me  that  others  do  not ; 
and,  oh  !  sir,  if  you  only  could  get  her  to  reveal  it  to  you ! 
If  any  one  can  do  it,  you  can.  I  want  to  know  the  worst." 

Mr.  Vernon  listened  with  deep  attention.  The  few  things 
Louise  had  told  of  Caroline's  conduct  towards  herself,  con 
nected  with  what  he  also  knew,  convinced  him  there  was 
some  strange  secret  in  the  breast  of  that  woman,  which  ought, 
if  possible,  to  be  brought  to  light. 

A  few  moments  after  Louise  had  ceased  speaking,  he  sat 
silently  pondering ;  at  length,  without  any  apparent  emotion, 
he  said : 

"  You  have  asked  of  me  what  it  may  not  be  in  my  power 
to  accomplish :  but  I  will  say  to  you,  my  dear  child,  your 
request  shall  not  be  forgotten  by  me.  Do  you  say  nothing 
to  Caroline,  or  to  any  one  else,  of  the  purport  of  your  present ' 
communication.  It  will  require  great  caution,  and  some 
months  may  intervene  before  anything  can  be  done  in  the 
matter ;  and  perhaps  I  can  do  nothing  after  all.  But  you 
may  rely  upon  it,  I  shall  not  forget  your  case,  in  any  of  its 
peculiarities.  I  will  endeavor  to  see  you  as  often  as  circum 
stances  will  permit ;  perhaps  I  may  yet  be  a  frequent  visitor 
at  Esquire  Thompson's.  My  advice  to  you  now  is :  be  re 
moved  as  soon  as  possible  to  your  home,  and  treat  your 
friends  with  due  respect." 

"  I  have  always  done  so." 

"That  is  right;  continue  to  do  so.  Have  patience  ;  trust 
in  God  ;  do  you  pray  to  him,  Louise  ?" 

Louise  covered  her  face,  but  did  not  reply.  Alas,  poor 
child  !  it  was  the  first  time  the  subject  had  ever  been  men 
tioned  to  her;  her  infant  lips  had  never  been  taught  to  lisp 
"  Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,"  and  no  one  with  whom  she 
had  been  cast,  had  ever  ventured  to  ask  her  the  question. 

"  I  fear,  from  your  silence,  Louise,  that  you  do  not." 

"I  have  never. learned  to  pray,  sir." 

"  It  is  easily  learned  if  you  have  only  the  heart  to  try. 
You  know  not  that  you  have  any  living  earthly  parents ;  but 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        105 

you  have  a  Heavenly  Father.  He  has  in  many  ways  signally 
marked  his  care  of  you,  and  manifested  his  kindness  to  you. 
Oh,  do  not  deny  yourself  the  blessed  privilege  of  going  to 
him,  confessing  all  your  sins,  casting  your  burdens  upon 
him,  asking  his  counsel  in  all  your  ways,  and  his  blessing 
on  every  step  you  take.  Feel  that  he  is  your  Father,  that 
He  loves  you,  and  that  he  can  do  for  you  what  no  earthly 
friend  can  !  Will  you,  Louise,  do  as  I  request  ?" 

"  I  will — I  will !  I  will  do  just  as  you  have  told  me.  Ob, 
how  I  thank  you !" 

"  And  now,  good  bye.  I  am  glad  that  we  have  had  this 
interview.  I  came  to  see  Caroline,  at  her  own  request.  But 
I  shall  defer  my  visit  with  her  just  now,  and  will  send  her  at 
once  to  you.  Good  bye." 

Esquire  Thompson  was  highly  gratified,  when  he  came  for 
Louise,  to  find  her  so  ready  to  be  removed,  and  without  any 
manifestation  of  having  remembered  or  laid  up  anything 
against  him.  She  suffered  considerable  pain  in  being  con 
veyed  to  the  carriage  and  when  on  the  road,  but  made  as 
little  complaint  as  possible. 

The  squire  had  given  his  own  version  of  the  affair  at 
home,  and  he  rather  hoped  that  Louise,  in  consequence  of  her 
unconscious  state  at  the  time,  remembered  not  how  it  hap 
pened. 

It  was  not  many  days  after  this  scene  that,  as  the  squire 
was  seated  in  his  office,  he  saw  the  carriage  of  Mr.  Vernon  stop 
at  his  gate.  He  was  somewhat  surprised  and  not  very  well 
pleased.  They  had  never  had  any  dealings  together  and  were 
not  likely  to  have,  for  Mr.  Vernon  was  known  to  be  very  averse 
to  a  recourse  to  law  ;  even  suffering  injustice  at  times  rather 
than  engage  in  a  legal  contest.  He  therefore  had  never  paid 
the  squire  any  fee,  nor  did  the  latter  expect  he  would  ever  re 
ceive  any  from  him.  And  as  a  mere  acquaintance,  Mr.  Vernon 
was  not  one  whose  general  habits  were  congenial  to  the 
squire.  He  was  indeed  known  to  be  a  man  of  property  ;  he 
owned  large  tracts  of  land  in  Stratton  and  its  vicinity,  as 
well  as  much  real  estate  in  the  city  of  New  York ;  and  was, 
therefore,  whenever  he  came  into  the  country  to  spend  a  few 
months,  as  he  did  every  summer,  treated  with  courlesy  by 
those  even  who  were  rather  disposed  to  ridicule  his  peculiar 
ways,  and  Esquire  Thompson  was  among  this  number.  The 

5* 


106  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

squire  had  no  special  regard  for  religion  himself,  and  when  a 
man  carried  out  the  principles  of  his  faith  to  such  a  degree  that 
he  was  often  around  sick-beds  and  took  pains  to  visit  the 
poor,  and  those  who  might  be  suffering  from  calamity  of  any 
kind,  not  only  praying  with  them,  but  dealing  out  liberally 
from  his  own  fullness  for  their  necessities — it  was  making  the 
difference  in  their  views  and  feelings  too  marked  to  be  agree 
able  ;  and  he  rather  shunned  Mr.  Vernon.  But  when 
ever  they  met,  every  civility  took  place  between  them. 
The  scene  at  the  shanty  of  Caroline  had  been  an  exception 
to  this  rule  ;  and  Esquire  Thompson  was  heartily  ashamed  of 
his  conduct  on  that  occasion.  He  had  not  met  with  Mr. 
Vernon  since,  and  he  rather  feared  when  they  did  meet  that 
the  subject  would  be  brought  up ;  for  Mr.  Vernon  was  a  gen 
tleman  who  would  not  be  very  likely  to  suffer  an  insult  with 
out  inquiring  a  reason  for  it,  even  if  he  did  not  care  to  resent 
it.  And  for  the  squire  to  give  a  reason  forhis  conduct  on 
that  occasion  would  not  have  been  very  pleasant. 

It  was,  therefore,  as  we  have  said,  not  very  agreeable  to 
the  squire  to  have  just  such  a  visitor  as  had  called.  He  was 
resolved,  however,  to  meet  him  cordially.  He  opened  his 
office  door  and  stood  ready  to  receive  the  gentleman,  who  was 
on  his  way,  the  office  being  at  some  distance  from  the  road. 

On  both  sides  the  manner  was  courteous ;  and  for  a  few 
moments  the  more  common  topics  of  conversation  were  dis 
cussed,  when  Mr.  Vernon  at  once  commenced  the  purport  of 
his  errand. 

"  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  calling  upon  you  this  morn 
ing,  Esquire  Thompson,  for  two  specific  objects,  and  6ne  of 
them  is  a  professional  matter.  I  want  your  aid  in  settling  a 
little  difficulty  between  Mr.  Thorndyke  and  myself,  in  regard 
to  the  division-line  between  my  farm  on  the  neck  and  his 
adjoining  land." 

"  I  have  heard  some  little  talk  about  it." 

"  Has  he  engaged  your  services  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  he  has  said  nothing  to  me  about  it." 

Mr.  Vernon  then  took  out  his  pocket-book,  and  releasing 
from  thence  a  fifty-dollar  bill,  laid  it  on  the  table  before  the 
squire. 

"  Will  that,  Esquire  Thompson  be  sufficient  to  secure  your 
services  on  my  behalf." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         107 

"  Certainly,  sir,  and  more  than  sufficient.  It  is  not,  as  I 
apprehend,  a  difficult  case,  by  any  meaus.  The  right  of  the 
matter  can  easily  be  come  at.  I  hardly  feel  justified,  Mr.  Ver- 
non,  in  taking  so  large  a  sum." 

"Perhaps,  sir,  you  may  find  more  trouble  in  the  case  than 
you  think  for.  The  fact  is,  I  believe  Mr.  Thorndyke  is  ra 
ther  determined  to  have  his  way,  and  I  wish  the  matter  settled 
without  recourse  to  law.  Therefore  the  service  you  are  to 
perform  for  me  is,  to  exert  your  influence  with  that  gentle- 
"  man,  that  he  may  be  induced  to  have  the  disputed  point  set 
tled  by  arbitration  ;  and  I  give  you  full  power  to  arrange  it 
just  as  you  know  such  matters  ought  to  be  managed.  What 
ever  trouble  you  have  in  the  case,  I  assure  you,  shall  be  amplv 
compensated." 

"I  understand  your  wish,  Mr.  Vernon,  and  will,  with  plea 
sure  do  what  I  can  to  accomplish  it;  without  doubt,  it  can  be 
settled  in  the  way  you  propose." 

"  My  other  business,  Esquire  Thompson,  is,  in  reference  to 
a  loan  of  money.  If  I  am  not  mistaken  you  have  advertised 
for  a  loan  of  seven  thousand  dollars,  on  propertv  iu  New 
York  ?" 

"  I  have,  sir." 

"  Have  you  supplied  yourself — or  whoever  it  may  be  that 
wants  it  ?" 

"  I  have  not,  sir ;  it  seems  that  money  is  not  quite  so  plenty 
as  it  has  been." 

"  I  have  funds  at  present  unemployed,  and  if  the  security 
is  good,  will  be  glad  to  invest  it  in  this  way." 

This  at  once  brought  out  an  explanation  on  the  part  of  the 
esquire.  "  He  wanted  the  money,  although  not  for  his  per 
sonal  account.  The  security  offered  was  property  belonging 
to  his  ward,  Miss  Lovelace,  and  the  money  would  be  used  in 
improving  the  lots  proposed  to  be  mortgaged.  Of  course  a 
confidential  communication  must  be  made  to  Mr.  Vernon,  con 
cerning  the  property — how  it  became  hers,  and  as  to  the 
powers  with  which  the  esquire  was  invested.  All  of  which 
was  not  only  news  to  Mr.  Vernon,  but  also  afforded  him 
an  insight  to  the  state  of  things,  which  was  very  desirable, 
and  which  he  had  been  now  for  some  time  anxious  to  ob 
tain. 

He  had  also   gained   the   favorable   opinion   of  Esquire 


108  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

Thompson,  and  been  let  into  some  of  the  secrets  of  the  family, 
as  no  other  person  as  yet  had,  and  from  the  very  cordial  in 
vitation  on  the  part  of  the  squire  "  to  call  often  at  his 
house,  he  felt  that  an  important  point  was  gained  in  the  work 
he  had  undertaken  for  Louise. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  been  stimulated  particularly  to  this  effort 
in  consequence  of  receiving,  a  few  days  previous,  the  follow 
ing  letter : 

"  Q-LBNTILLB,  July  — ,  18 — . 

"DEAR  VERNON: 

"  I  write  to  you  at  the  request  of  my  wife,  in  reference 
to  an  old  subject,  upon  which  we  have  often  corresponded, 
and  which  you  know  is  the  one  burden  that  presses  so  hea 
vily  upon  our  hearts.  I  do  not  know  that  I  should  trouble 
you  again  about  this  matter  were  it  not  for  the  urgent  solici 
tation  of  Caroline.  Like  a  true  mother,  she  will  not  give  up 
the  hope  of  one  day  finding  our  lost  one  ;  although,  for  my 
own  part,  so  many  years  have  elapsed,  and  our  expectations 
have  been  so  often  disappointed,  that  I  must  say,  my  heart 
desponds  of  ever  accomplishing  such  a  happy  result.  It  is  a 
dark  dispensation,  and  a  gloom  hangs  over  the  event  which  I 
would  scatter  if  I  could. 

"  I  wish,  if  possible,  that  you  should  ascertain  some  parti 
culars  respecting  a  Miss  Lovelace,  living,  as  I  am  informed, 
in  the  family  of  Esquire  Thompson,  of  Stratton. 

"  She  is  thought  to  be  a  niece  of  bis.  Will  you  find  out 
whether  this  is  really  so  ?  whether  she  is  related  to  him,  or, 
as  is  sometimes  the  case,  merely  calls  him  uncle  by  courtesy. 
You  know  for  what  reason  I  wish  these  inquiries  made,  and 
your  own  judgment  and  kind  heart  will  dictate  what  others 
are  necessary. 

"  Your  old  friend, 

"  FRANK  MARSTON." 

Mr.  Vernon  had  immediately  answered  this  letter,  and  he 
chose  to  do  so  before  making  his  call  upon  Esquire  Thomp 
son. 

The  purport  of  his  reply  was — "  That  they  might  depend 
upon  his  faithful  attention  to  their  request.  That  as  soon  as 
he  could  satisfy  himself  there  was  any  sure  ground  upon  which 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         109 

to  rest  a  hope,  he  would  inform  them  ;  but  until  then  he  could 
not  say  one  word,  for  he  should  feel  that  he  was  acting  an  un 
kind  part  if  he,  in  any  way,  excited  expectations  that  might 
end  in  disappointment."  . 

The  facts  which  Mr.  Vernon  had  ascertained  from  Louise, 
and  especially  from  her  guardian,  were  not  likely  to  be  lost 
sight  of  by  him,  and  although  he  would  not  allow  anything 
to  escape  from  his  lips  or  his  pen,  that  might  tend  to  encour 
age  his  friends  in  hopes  that  had  no  real  foundation,  yet  his 
own  mind  was  intensely  excited  on  the  subject. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

ALTHOUGH  Henry  entered  the  city  of  New  York  under 
more  agreeable  circumstances  than  he  had  ever  anticipated  ; 
vet  as  the  stage  rolled  along  through  the  great  thoroughfare, 
and  his  eye  surveyed  the  passing  throng,  and  the  rows  of 
lighted  windows,  and  the  haste  and  tumult  which  mark  that 
highway  of  the  city  at  .the  closing  of  the  day,  strange  feel 
ings  came  over  him.  A  sense  of  loneliness  he  had  never 
been  quite  so  conscious  of  before.  "  No  one  knew  him  amid 
that  multitude.  No  one  cared  for  his  welfare !  All  seemed 
to  be  hastening  on  to  some  fascinating  goal ;  some  engross 
ing  object  absorbed  their  thoughts,  and  the  very  stage,  which 
at  all  the  stopping-places  and  past  the  farm-houses,  had  attract 
ed  so  much  notice  through  the  day,  was  now  of  so  little  conse 
quence,  that  no  one  he  could  see,  cast  even  a  glance  at  it." 
Some  cheering  thoughts,  however,  he  could  indulge:  "The 
letter  which  Captain  Marston  had  given  him  !  What  should 
he  have  done  without  that."  And,  in  connection  with  that,  he 
recalled  the  hour  when,  faint  and  weary,  he  had  met  that 
generous  man ! 

Hitherto  he  had  been  led  by  a  kind  hand,  and  he  would 
try  to  "  trust  with  all  his  heart." 

Evart  Marston,  too !  "  He  was  somewhere  in  this  great 
Babel !"  And  although  he  had  not  forgotten  the  warning  of 
Mr.  Marston,  still,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  meet  Evart — to 
feel  the  kind  grasp  of  his  hand,  and  havw  the  assurance  that 
there  was  one  human  being,  amid  the  multitude  of  strange 
faces,  whom  he  had  seen  before. 

Henry  had  not  inquired  of  the  driver,  where  the  stage 
would  stop,  and  land  its  passengers.  He  had  not  thought  of 
that,  and  if  he  had,  it  would  not  have  given  him  any  clear 
comprehension  of  matters;  his  ideas  of  the  magnitude  of  the 
place  were  very  indefinite.  It  was,  therefore,  with  no  little 
satisfaction  that,  on  entering  the  stage-house  and  making  the 
inquiry,  "  What  street  is  this  ?"  he  received  the  reply,  "  Cort- 
landt  street."  "  Why,  this  was  the  very  street  in  which  Evart 
lived,  and  perhaps,  his,  house  was  near  at  hand  '."  He  re- 
110. 


TRUE   TO   THE   LAST.  Ill 

membered  the  number,  and  with  his  portmanteau  in  hand, 
sallied  forth  at  once  in  search  of  it.  To  his  great  joy,  in 
looking  at  the  number  from  whence  he  was  about  to  start,  he 
perceived  that  it  must  be  near  at  hand.  Some  little  difficulty 
occurred  however,  in  making  out  by  the  flickering  lights  of 
the  street,  the  figures  on  the  doors;  at  length  he  noticed  one 
house  at  whose  front  were  two  lighted  lamps,  springing  up 
from  the  iron  railings  of  the  stoop.  They  threw  a  glare  around 
which  quite  obscured  the  little  twinkling  rays  from  the  posts, 
that  were  scattered  at  regular  intervals  through  the  street. 
He  looked  up,  and  to  his  amazement  beheld  the  very  number 
he  was  searching  for,  and  on  a  brass  plate,  in  very  distinct 
letters,  was  the  name  of  Marston !  For  a  moment  he  stood 
surveying  the  stately  building;  rich  drapery  hung  at  the  win 
dows,  almost  shutting  from  view  the  interior  of  the  room — 
but  he  could  see  through  the  narrow  openings,  brilliant  lights 
hanging  in  its  centre,  and  little  dangling  glasses  around  them, 
reflecting  various  colors. 

He  had  never  seen  anything  so  fine  before.  The  house,  too, 
seemed  a  little  higher  than  those  around  it,  and  its  finish  was 
more  tasteful,  and  it  had  a  newer  look.  Many  doubts  at 
once  troubled  him.  Everything  that  he  could  see  distin 
guished  it  as  the  abode  of  wealth;  and  although  he  had  been 
told  that  Evart  was  rich,  yet  he  had  not  thought  how  he 
would  be  affected  when  in  immediate  contact  with  the  exter 
nals  of  wealth  in  a  city.  The  contrast  between  all  in  that 
house  and  his  own  personal  appearance,  he  began  to  fear 
would  be  too  marked.  "  He  was  indeed  decently  dressed, 
but  what  might  appear  passable  in  the  country  might  be 
very  much  below  par  here ;"  and  as  he  looked  down  at  him 
self  in  the  light  of  the  lamps,  he  thought  his  dress  had  a  rus 
tic  roughness  he  had  not  noticed  before ;  and  for  the  moment 
he  was  glad  he  had  not  gone  up  the  stoop  and  rang  the  bell. 
"  He  would  go  back  to  the  stage-house  and  get  lodgings  for 
the  night."  But  his  promise  came  to  mind  !  "  He  had  em 
phatically  told  Evart  that  he  would  come  directly  to  his 
house."  He  looked  once  more  at  the  window,  and  thought 
he  saw  Evart  pass,  and  with  a  desperate  will  ascended  the 
steps,  pulled  the  bell,  and  heard  distinctly  its  summons  from 
a  distant  part  of  the  house. 

A  little  time  elapsed  before  the  door  was  opened  by  a 


112  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OR, 

colored  serving-man,  very  neatly  dressed,  who,  casting  rather 
a  cold  look  on  Henry,  as  his  eye  glanced  over  his  person,  and 
rested  on  his  portmanteau,  stood  with  the  door  in  his  hand, 
without  speaking. 

"  Does  Mr.  Evart  Marston  live  here  ?" 

"  Mr.  Evart !     Yes." 

"  Is  he  at  home !" 

"  Yes  he's  home.     Any  business  with  him  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him." 

The  door  was  then  more  widely  opened,  and  the  servant 
stepped  one  side  and  said  in  a  faint  voice — 

"  Walk  in,  if  you  please,  I  will  call  him." 

Henry  stepped  in,  the  servant  closed  the  door,  and  without 
asking  his  name,  or  inviting  him  any  further,  left  him  stand 
ing  in  the  hall  while  he  went  to  do  his  errand,  which  Henry 
could  hear  distinctly  announced  to  the  inmates  of  the  parlor, 
although  in  a  very  different  tone  of  voice  from  that  in  which 
he  had  been  addressed. 

It  may  have  been  only  imagination,  but  Henry  thought  he 
noticed  a  flush  on  Evart's  face — -otherwise  his  reception  was 
as  kind  as  he  anticipated.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  led  by 
his  friend  into  the  room  which  he  had  seen  so  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  introduced  to  Mrs.  Marston  and  a  sister  of 
Evart's — a  young  lady  apparently  about  fifteen. 

The  mother  seemed  in  rather  delicate  health,  but  her 
countenance  had  a  very  pleasing  expression.  She  received 
Henry  with  as  much,  cordiality  as  had  her  son. 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Evart,  as  he  stood  beside  Henry,  hold 
ing  his  arm  while  the  latter  was  answering  questions  by  Mrs. 
Marston  respecting  her  brother's  family. — "  I  am  so  glad  you 
have  come  in  just  as  you  have — for  you  know  I  could  not  tell 
when  to  expect  you — and  I  had  made  an  engagement  with 
some  of  my  friends  to  go  to  the  theatre  this  evening — and  I 
am  expecting  our  carriage  every  minute." 

"But  perhaps  your  friend  Mr.  Thornton,  would  like  to 
accompany  you  ?" 

"  I  should  prefer  to  be  excused,  Mrs.  Marston,  if  your  son 
will  allow  me." 

Evart  was  evidently  relieved  by  this  answer  of  Henry, 
although  he  replied — 

"  Well,  I  have  no  doubt  you  are  tired,  ard  might  not  enjoy 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         113 

the  play.  But  you  shall  not  get  off  so  easily  the  next  time, 
and  if  it  was  not  that  it's  a  benefit  night  for  our  favorite 
player,  and  I  had  promised  some  of  the  fellows  to  go,  I  should 
stay  with  you  by  all  means." 

Henry,  however,  set  the  mind  of  his  friend  entirely  at  rest 
by  saying,  "  That  he  should  very  much  regret  he  came  at  all 
that  evening,  if  Evart  remained  on  his  account." 

There  was  no  display  of  hospitality  on  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Marston ;  but  her  easy,  quiet  manner,,  and  her  attention  to  his 
wants,  soon  made  him  forget  that  he  was  in  a  mansion  which 
wealth  had  furnished,  and  where  everything  about  him  was  so 
different  from  what  he  had  ever  seen  before. 

Soon  after  Evart  left,  Henry  was  invited  into  an  adjoining 
room,  where  a  comfortable  meal,  just  such  as  a  hungry  boy 
would  be  very  apt  to  fancy,  was  in  readiness  for  him.  And 
then,  all  through  the  evening,  a  pleasant  converse  was  held 
•with  him  about  matters  and  things  at  Glenville,  the  house  of 
Captain  Marston;  and  from  there  to  his  own  affairs,  until  the 
lady  had  become  fully  acquainted  with  his  past  history  and 
present  prospects. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  "  on  some  accounts,  it  is  hard 
to  be  left  alone,  to  make  our  own  way  in  the  world  ;  and  yet 
sometimes  I  feel  in  regard  to  my  son  that  he  is  in  more 
danger  from  the  situation  in  which  he  has  been  left  than  if  he 
was  dependent  upon  his  own  exertions.  Evart  is  a  generous, 
good-hearted  boy ;  but  he  is  very  social  in  his  disposition, 
and  has  many  acquaintances  that  I  fear  may  yet  do  him  harm, 
and  I  hope,  as  he  seems  quite  attached  to  you,  that  you  will  try 
all  you  can  to  exert  a  good  influence  over  him.  He  is  easily 
influenced,  and  I  believe  has  not  yet  acquired  any  bad  habits." 

Henry  certainly  had  seen  nothing  in  his  friend  which  gave 
him  any  reason  to  think  otherwise,  and  therefore  promptly 
replied — 

"  I  think  you  need  not  fear  for  Evart,  Mrs.  Marston.  He 
seems  to  me  to  be  all  that  is  noble  and  good." 

At  what  time  Evart  came  home  that  night  Henry  knew 
not,  for  he  was  allowed  to  retire  early.  But  Evart  was  not  at 
the  breakfast-table  with  them,  and  did  not  make  his  appear- 
anr.e  until  Henry  had  taken  leave  of  Mrs.  Marston,  and  was 
about  to  go  on  his  way  to  deliver  his  letter  of  introduction  to 
the  firm  in  Broadway. 


114  TEUE   TO   THE   LAST',   OK, 

"  Hold  on,  hold  on,  my  good  fellow.  What  are  you  at  ?" 
Henry  was  iu  the  outer  entry,  and  about  to  pass  from  the 
house,  when  he  was  thus  accosted  by  Evart,  who  had  just 
come  from  his  room. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  deliver  your  uncle's  letter,  and  try  to 
get  a  place." 

"You  are  going  to  do  no  such  thing.  Come,  come,  you 
have  forgotten  all  our  agreement  together!  No,  no,  you  are 
not  going  to  stir  a  step  that  way,  yet  a  while ;  not  to-day  at 
any  rate.  Come  in,  come  in,  for  I  was  out  rather  late  last 
night  and  feel  a  little  the  worse  for  wear  this  morning ;  but 
shall  be  all  right  when  I  have  had  my  coffee,  so  just  come  in." 

It  was  not  Henry's  nature  to  say  no,  and  he  therefore  fol 
lowed  Evart  back  into  the  breakfast- room. 

"What  do  you  think,  mother!  I  have  just  caught  this 
young  gentleman  in  the  act  of  giving  me  the  slip.  Why, 
don't  you  know,  man,  when  you  once  get  behind  their  old 
counters,  you  will  be  just  the  same  as  packed  up  in  a  box  of 
dry  goods !  They  will  keep  you  tight  at  it  from  morning  to 
night.  You  will  never  have  an  hour  to  yourself  except  Sun 
days,  and  I  suppose  you  are  too  conscientious  to  make  a 
holiday  of  that.  No,  no,  come  sit  down !  Mother,  a  little 
fresh  coffee,  if  you  please." 

And  Mrs.  Marston  ordered  the  servant  to  have  some  freshly 
made. 

"  You  see,  Thornton,  I  have  been  thinking  over  what  we 
have  got  to  do  to-day,  and  I  have  got  it  all  cut  and  dry.  One 
day  can  make  no  kind  of  difference.  To-morrow  will  do  just 
as  well  to  call  on  those  gentlemen  counter-jumpers  as  to-day  ! 
Do  you  not  think  so,  mother  ?" 

"  Why,  I  suppose,  my  son,  Master  Thornton,  feels  anxious  to 
ascertain  whether  he  can  have  a  situation  there,  though  per 
haps  one  day  will  not  make  so  much  difference.  But  where 
are  you  going,  Evart  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  ways  enough !  We  will  tell  you  when  we 
get  home.  This  toast  is  a  little  burnt,  and  the  coffee  is  not 
too  strong,  but  no  matter !  The  fact  is,  eight  o'clock  is  too 
early  for  breakfast,  one  cannot  trump  up  an  appetite.  How 
is  it  with  you,  Thornton  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  find  no  difficulty  in  that  respect." 

"  I  rather  think,  my  son,  you  were  up  too  late  last  night." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         115 

"  Perhaps  that  is  it !  Any  how,  nothing  tastes  good.  But 
I  know  what  we  will  do,  Thornton.  At  twelve  o'clock 
we  will  take  a  bowl  of  turtle  soup.  Did  you  ever  taste 
any  ?" 

"  I  never  have." 

"  Then  there's  a  treat  for  you !  A  bowl  of  good  turtle 
soup,  fresh  rolls  and  a  bottle  of  pale  ale.  Well,  mother,  we 
had  a  full  house  last  night,  and  Cooper  did  his  best.  He 
plays  two  nights  more  before  he  starts  for  Europe." 

Mrs.  Marston  did  not  reply  to  many  things  her  son  said  to 
her.  She  seemed  absorbed  in  thought,  occasionally  casting  a 
glance  at  his  countenance,  which  to  Henry  looked  very  pale. 
Perhaps  the  mother  thought  so  too,  and  had  some  fears  as  to 
the  cause  of  it. 

Had  Henry  acted  according  to  his  own  sense  of  propriety, 
he  would  have  lost  no  time  in  attending  to  the  business  for 
which  he  had  come  to  the  city.  Or  had  his  good  friend 
Captain  Marston  been  by  him,  he  would  no  doubt  have  hushed 
Evart's  reasoning  very  quickly,  and  started  Henry  off  to 
attend  to  the  main  chance  first.  But  no  such  happy  influence 
was  just  then  at  hand,  and  too  ready  to  oblige  one  who  had 
acted  in  such  a  friendly  manner  towards  him,  he  yielded — 
rather  reluctantly,  however,  for  his  good  sense  told  him  that 
the  path  of  duty  was  the  safe  path,  and  duty  in  his  case  was 
to  procure  a  situation  without  delay. 

At  ten  o'clock,  as  Evart  had  ordered,  his  fine  horse  and  gig 
were  in  readiness,  and  the  two  young  men  prepared  for  their 
excursion. 

Henry  could  not  but  feel  that  the  contrast  which  his 
appearance  made  to  that  of  his  friend  was  somewhat  embar 
rassing.  He  had  on,  indeed,  his  best  suit,  which  answered 
very  well  in  the  country ;  but  when  brought  into  immediate 
contact  with  one  who  was  arrayed  in  the  very  finest  materials, 
fashioned  after  the  newest  style,  the  difference  was  too  mani 
fest  not  to  be  felt  by  him  ! 

Whether  Evart  thought  of  the  matter  Henry  could  not 
have  told,  for  not  the  least  sign  was  given  that  the  former 
noticed  his  apparel  in  any  way. 

After  riding  a  short  distance,  Evart  turned  to  his  compa 
nion,  remarking: 

"  Now,  Thornton,  you  must  not  be  alarmed,  and  I  hope  you 


116  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OR, 

will  not  be  offended  !  But  I  am  going,  in  the  first  place,  with 
you  to  my  tailor's,  and  have  you  get  a  new  set-out." 

"  Oh,  thank  you — thank  you  !  but  I  dare  not.  I  dare  not 
by  any  means,  until  I  get  a  situation  and  earn  some  money. 
I  dare  not  take  what  I  have  on  hand  !  Not  now." 

"  Do  not  disturb  yourself,  my  dear  fellow,  about  the  where 
with.  Keep  your  money — what  you've  got — just  leave  this 
matter  to  me.  Give  yourself  no  trouble  about  it,  I  will  man 
age  all  that." 

You  see,  my  good  fellow,  you  have  never  been  in  the  city 
before,  and  have  no  idea,  or  at  least  not  a  just  one,  of  the 
great  difference  between  matters  here  and  at  Maple  Cove. 
People  here  go  pretty  much  by  appearance.  You  have  got 
to  look  smart,  hold  your  head  up  as  high  as  any  one ;  and 
let  them  know  that  you  feel  yourself  of  consequence.  It  is 
the  only  way;  if  you  don't  you  will  be  trod  upon  pretty 
soon." 

Henry  did  not  believe  that  such  views  were  correct,  and 
would  have  argued  the  matter  further  with  his  friend,  but  as 
Evart  closed  the  last  sentence,  he  stopped  his  horse  before  a 
fine  clothing  establishment,  jumped  out  and  beckoned  Henry 
to  follow  him.  Once  in  the  shop,  there  was  no  chance  for 
him  to  make  resistance,  as  Evart  immediately  engaged  in  a 
very  lively  chatting  with  one  of  the  principals,  who,  in  a  few 
moments  stepped  up  to  Henry,  and  asked  him  to  walk  into 
the  upper  apartment  of  the  store. 

Evart  accompanied  him,  and  whispered  as  they  went  along, 
what  color  he  thought  would  be  most  suitable. 

•'  And  don't  you  you  say  anything  about  the  price,  I  will 
see  to  all  that.  Just  do  as  I  say  for  once." 

Thus  situated,  it  was  almost  impossible  for  Henry  to  do 
otherwise,  for  his  mind  was  in  such  a  confused  state,  between 
his  desire  to  do  right  and  his  desire  to  please  Evart,  and  his 
feeling  that  the  whole  thing  was  wrong,  and  yet  if  he  refused 
the  offer  he  might  offend  ;  or  that  possibly  his  present  dress 
was  a  cause  of  mortification  to  the  family,  or  at  least  to 
Evart.  All  these  thoughts  so  confounded  him,  that  he  could 
only  do  as  directed,  but  with  a  very  unwilling  mind. 

That  he  was  finely  fitted  out,  there  could  be  no  mistake; 
and  that  it  made  a  vast  difference  in  his  appearance,  Henry 
himself  could  not  but  acknowledge,  as  he  surveyed  his  per- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         117 

sou  in  the  large  mirror.  That  he  felt  any  complacency  in 
the  change,  or  any  happier,  as  he  saw  his  former  suit  being 
rolled  up,  to  be  sent  in  the  course  of  the  day  to  the  dwelling 
of  Mr.  Marston,  we  must  do  him  the  justice  to  doubt,  or  ra 
ther,  to  give  for  him  a  decided  negative. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  store,  the  gentleman  who  had 
waited  upon  them,  called  young  Marston  to  the  desk  a  mo 
ment.  Henry  could  not  hear  what  passed,  only  that  the  for 
mer  remarked,  "  All  right — all  right." 

We  shall  not  attempt  to  follow  the  young  men  in  their 
ride  to  various  parts  of  the  city  ;  suffice  it,  that  a  little  before 
three  o'clock,  they  were  again  in  Cortlandt  street,  and  prepar 
ing  for  dinner. 

As  they  alighted  from  the  gig,  Henry  heard  Evart  request 
the  servant  to  have  "  Scarecrow "  in  readiness  for  him  by 
four  o'clock. 

Who  "  Scarecrow "  was  he  had  no  idea,  or  what  was 
next  to  be  done  he  could  not  guess ;  but  he  had  given  him 
self  up  for  the  day,  and  meant  to  ask  no  more  questions. 

Mrs.  Marston  made  no  allusion  whatever  to  Henry's  altered 
appearance,  nor  was  her  treatment  of  him  in  any  way  changed. 
She  merely  remarked  that  a  bundle  had  been  sent  home  for 
Master  Thornton,  and  she  had  ordered  it  to  be  placed  in  his 
room. 

At  four,  precisely,  Henry  was  summoned  by  Evart,  from  an 
agreeable  conversation  he  was  holding  with  Mrs.  Marston. 

"  Come,  Thornton,  we  must  be  off.  Scarecrow  is  ready, 
and  he  don't  like  standing." 

"  Where  now,  Evart  ?  And  have  you  got  that  fast 
horse  ?" 

"  Oh,  mother,  no  danger !  Scarecrow  likes  to  go  ;  but  I 
do  not  let  him  have  his  way  until  he  gets  off  the  pavement — 
all  before  him  must  clear  the  road  then !" 

Scarecrow  was  not  a  bad-looking  horse ;  but  could  bear 
no  comparison,  in  beauty  of  form,  to  the  beast  Evart  had 
driven  in  the  morning.  He  was  rather  of  small  stature — 
square  built — with  high  hip  bones — a  short  shaggy  tail,  and 
a  very  thick  mane,  which  lay  on  both  sides  of  his  neck.  His 
head  was  long  for  his  size,  and  his  foretop  would  have 
completely  covered  his  eyes,  if  he  had  not  learned  to  shake  it 
one  side. 


118  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OR, 

At  the  end  of  each  rein  was  a  fixture  Henry  had  never  be 
fore  seen  attached  to  a  harness,  although  he  had  seen  some 
thing  of  the  kind  used  by  gentlemen  in  putting  on  tight 
boots.  He  thought  probably  it  was  a  New  York  fashion, 
although  he  did  not  notice  them  on  the  reins  with  which 
Evart  had  driven  that  morning ;  he  knew  more  about  the 
necessity  for  them  in  the  course  of  their  ride.  Aside  from  the 
peculiar  shaking  of  his  head,  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  the  travelling  of  Scarecrow  while  passing  through  the 
great  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  so  long  as  he  felt  the  pave 
ment  under  his  feet ;  but  no  sooner  did  he  pass  from  the 
round  stones  to  the  well  beaten  ground,  than  he  began  to 
manifest  signs  of  uneasiness  ;  tossing  his  head,  laying  his  ears 
back,  and  requiring  constant  soothing  by  his  driver,  to  keep 
him  quiet.  For  a  mile  or  so,  or  until  the  small  rise  of  ground, 
known  then  as  Sailor's  Snug  Harbor,  was  passed,  Evart  had 
contrived  by  means  of  coaxing  rather  than  by  a  tight  rein, 
to  control  his  speed,  but  as  they  reached  the  level  track, 
which  spread  far  ahead  from  that  point,  in  a  moment  the 
spirited  creature  sprang  forward,  rolling  himself  from  side  to 
side,  and  tossing  his  shaggy  head  to  a  sort  of  time  with  his 
flying  legs.  Henry  had  to  grasp  tightly  to  the  rail  beside 
him,  while  Evart,  well  braced,  and  almost  borne  up  from  the 
cushion  by  the  main  strength  of  his  arms  clenched  tightly  to 
the  reins,  merely  said, 

"  Hold  on,  Thornton,  he  will  have  his  own  way  now." 

They  were  soon  in  the  midst  of  other  vehicles,  and  their 
drivers  were  doing  the  best  they  could ;  but  they  seemed  to 
understand  that  Scarecrow  must  go  ahead,  and  they  made 
way  for  him,  endeavoring  to  come  along  after,  as  fast  as  they 
were  able.  There  was  no  apparent  danger,  for  the  beast  was 
under  perfect  command  of  the  bit,  as  far  as  guiding  to  the  right 
or  left  was  concerned,  but  appeared  to  heed  the  strain  upon 
his  jaws  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  held  by  a  silken  thread. 
After  going  thus  for  a  few  miles,  Henry  ventured  to  ask — 

"  How  will  you  stop  him  ?  you  are  now  pulling  with  all 
your  strength." 

"  He  will  stop  of  his  own  accord  as  soon  as  he  gets  to 
Cato's,  and  not  before." 

Henry  knew  nothing  about  Cato's,  but  he  was  rather  gra 
tified  to  learn,  there  would  be  in  time  a  cessation  to  their 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         119 

rapid  career.  It  was  pleasant  enough,  but  if  anything  should 
give  way — a  pin  fall  out,  or  a  buckle  break,  where  would 
they  land  ? 

And  now  a  beautiful  lane  is  entered ;  fine  trees  line  it,  a 
clear  rippling  brook  crosses  it,  and  moss-covered  rocks  lie 
close  by  their  path,  past  which  they  speed  at  a  flying  rate. 
And  soon  a  neat  cottage  appears  on  the  left,  and  the  ground 
rises  as  they  approach.  A  well-beaten  path  winds  from  the 
main  track  up  towards  it,  and,  apparently  without  guidance, 
Scarecrow  tears  up  the  ascent,  and  in  a  moment  stands 
quietly,  merely  giving  an  extra  shake  of  his  head,  as  if  to  say, 
"  I've  beaten  them  all." 

Cato  Alexander  has  been  so  well  known  to  the  past  and  pre 
sent  generation  of  New  Yorkers,  that  for  them  any  descrip 
tion  of  him  or  his  establishment  would  be  worse  than  super 
fluous  ;  but  as  we  write  for  many  who  have  never  seen  New 
York,  it  may  be  as  well  just  to  say,  that  he  was  a  respectable 
man  of  color,  who,  for  many  years  kept  a  fashionable  place 
of  resort  for  pleasure-seekers  in  the  city,  who  wished  to  spend 
an  afternoon  in  company  with  those  of  their  own  taste.  It 
was  but  a  few  miles  from  the  city ;  the  drive  to  it  in  former 
days  was  through  delightful  country  scenery,  and  all  the  ar 
ticles  of  refreshment  which  might  be  called  for  there,  were  of 
the  choicest  kind.  Polite  in  his  treatment  of  guests,  and  of 
an  accommodating  disposition,  Cato  was  a  universal  favorite. 
There  were  also  abundant  means  provided  for  amusement,  and  if 
these  were  made  a  bad  use  of,  Cato  did  not  himself  feel  re 
sponsible  for  that;  his  only  object  being  to  make  a  liveli 
hood  and  something  more,  which  in  all  probability  he  accom 
plished.  All  who  stopped  at  Cato's  were  by  no  means  the 
dissipated,  nor  was  the  character  of  the  place  such  that  re 
spectable  families  would  feel  in  the  least  doubt  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  a  drive  there.  But  to  many  a  youth  it  was  the 
stepping-stone  to  a  downward  course.  Fast  horses,  nine-pins, 
and  other  devices  for  excitement ;  mulled  wine  in  winter, 
and  iced  madeira  and  champagne  in  summer,  were  leaders  to 
more  dangerous  drinks,  until  the  deadly  habit  was  con 
firmed,  and  the  youth  of  bright  prospects,  and  surrounded 
by  all  that  might  otherwise  make  life  desirable,  became  a 
by-word  amongst  the  multitude — a  bankrupt  in  property  and 
character,  and  sank  to  a  premature  grave. 


120  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

No  sooner  had  Evart  and  Henry  alighted,  than  a  crowd  of 
acquaintances  flocked  around,  to  some  of  whom  Henry 
was  introduced.  Many  were  young  men  whose  appear 
ance  corresponded  with  that  of  Evart,  although  Henry  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  find  that  he  took  their  hands,  and 
seemed  to  be  on  familiar  terms  with  some,  whose  appearance 
and  language  were  very  different  from  anything  he  had  seen 
in  Evart,  or  supposed  it  possible  that  his  friend  could  wil 
lingly  place  himself  in  contact  with.  As  their  conversation 
turned  almost  entirely  upon  the  merits  of  their  horses,  Henry 
was  not  at  all  prepared  to  engage  in  it,  and  was  therefore  com 
pelled  to  be  a  listener.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
mingled  as  an  associate  with  those  who  seemed  to  think  every 
assertion  they  made  must  be  supported  by  an  oath,  and  need 
it  be  wondered,  that  he  felt  himself  treading  upon  forbidden 
ground.  The  atmosphere  seemed  tainted  with  evil ;  he  felt 
the  blood  tingling  his  cheeks ;  a  load  had  suddenly  gathered 
at  his  heart;  his  spirits  sunk,  and  if  he  could,  gladly  would 
he  have  gone  'away  over  into  the  adjoining  fields  and  given 
vent  to  his  feelings.  It  will  be  no  pleasant,  task  to  go  through 
a  description  of  the  scenes  of  the  afternoon,  either  for  our 
readers  or  ourselves,  nor  to  be  particular  in  description  of 
the  drive  home.  A  crowd  of  vehicless  of  various  kinds, 
might,  for  a  time,  have  been  seen  tearing  along  the  beautiful 
avenue,  awhile  in  dangerous  proximity — the  drivers  hardly 
conscious  of  aught  else,  but  that  they  held  the  reins,  and 
reckless  of  whatever  was  before  or  beside  them.  Henry  was 
at  first,  from  the  novelty  of  his  situation,  more  or  less  dis 
turbed  with  apprehensions  for  their  safety,  but  Scarecrow  soon 
left  the  motley  crew  behind,  and  Evart,  as  yet,  under  no  other 
excitement  than  that  of  youth,  and  the  stimulus  of  having 
the  fastest  horse  upon  the  road,  manifested  such  skill  in  the 
guidance  of  his  beast,  that  their  progress  to  the  city  was  ra 
ther  pleasant  than  otherwise. 

The  impression,  however,  made  upon  the  mind  of  Henry 
by  this  first  drive  to  Cato's  was  by  no  means  favorable,  and 
he  resolved  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  to  persuade  Evart  to 
abstain  from  such  intercourse.  To  him  a  walk  of  thirty 
miles  would  have  been,  in  comparison,  a  pleasant  recreation. 

"  Well,  mother,"  said  Evart,  as  he  and  Henry  entered  the 
oarlor,  where  Mrs.  Marston  and  her  daughters  were  about  to 

'  O 


ALONE  ON  A.  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        121 

sit  down  at  the  tea-table :  "  Scarecrow  has  beaten  every  horse 
on  the  road  to-day.  I  would  not  sell  him  for  five  hundred 
dollars." 

"  I  am  very  glad,  my  son,  to  see  you  safely  back.  I  always 
feel  anxious  when  you  go  off  with  that  horse." 

"  Oh,  never  fear,  mother ;  all  I  have  to  do  is  to  hold  on, 
and  it  is  such  fun  to  see  the  fellows  trying  their  best  to  keep 
alongside.  And  then  to  see  Scarecrow  shake  his  head  and 
settle  himself  down,  and  roll  off  his  mile  in  three  minutes — 
it's  sport,  I  tell  you !  But,  mother,  we  are  invited  out  to 
night  !  Bob  Mclntyre  was  out  at  Cato's,  and  he  says  Thorn 
ton  and  I  must  come  to  his  house  this  evening.  Some  of 
the  young  fellows  are  to  be  there,  and  we  shall  have  a  nice 
time." 

Whether  Mrs.  Marston  was  in  favor  or  not  of  the  proposed 
visit  for  the  evening,  Henry  could  not  decide.  She  made  no 
objections,  and  perhaps  she  could  not  well  suggest  any.  It 
was  a  family  of  good  standing,  and  one  she  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  visiting;  and  yet,  there  can  be  little  doubt,  that 
mother's  heart  had  some  misgivings.  The  young  friends 
whom  her  son  was  gathering  about  him  were  not  just  the 
associates  to  do  him  good.  She  could  not  say  so  before  one 
so  much  a  stranger  as  Henry,  or  perhaps  she  thought  it 
might  be  a  trial  to  Evart  if  she  did.  As  yet  she  had  never 
crossed  his  wishes,  and  we  all  know  how  hard  it  is  to  take 
the  first  step  in  direct  opposition  to  those  we  love.  She  was 
a  fond  mother,  although  not  as  wise  perhaps  as  could  have 
been  wished.  Henry  was  quite  satisfied  with  his  various  ex 
cursions  of  the  day,  and  would  have  been  happy  if  permitted 
to  rest  quietly  that  evening ;  but  as  it  was  probably,  he 
thought,  the  last  evening  he  would  have  an  opportunity  to 
gratify  his  friend,  and  Evart  seemed  so  bent  upon  his  com 
pany  (young  Mclntyre  having  especially  charged  him  "  to  be 
sure  and  bring  his  friend  with,  him),  that  he  felt  it  would  be 
impolite  to  refuse, 

It  was  another  new  scene  for  Henry  to  mingle  In  a  fashion 
able  circle  of  young  people  in  the  city.  But  his  naturally 
observing  mind  and  easy  manners  enabled  him  to  acquit  him 
self  not  only  without  any  disparaging  remarks,  but  much  to 
the  gratification  of  Evart,  who  began  to  feel  proud  of  his 
voung  friend.  The  few  accomplishments  Henry  had  by  hih 

6 


122  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OB, 

own  efforts  acquired  rendered  him  throughout  the  evening 
quite  a  favorite  with  all.  Music  and  dancing,  and  lively 
chatting  in  the  interim  of  refreshments,  caused  the  time  to 
pass  quite  pleasantly  to  Henry,  and  had  it  ended  with  these, 
he  would  certainly  have  felt  that  the  closing  scene  of  the  day 
was  quite  agreeable.  Soon  after  ten  o'clock  he  was  led  away 
by  Evart  and  a  few  of  his  young  companions,  just  as  some  of 
those  who  had  sisters  present  were  taking  leave  for  the  night, 
into  a  more  private  room.  It  was  in  the  back  building  of 
the  house,  and,  as  young  Mclntyre  remarked,  "  was  his  own 
room  where  he  could  do  as  he  pleased."  Henry  had  heard 
of  cards,  and  perhaps  felt  more  shocked  than  he  would,  had 
he  been  reared  where  such  games  were  common  in  polite  life. 
Certainly  he  saw  no  evidence  that  any  of  the  young  men 
were  conscious  of  engaging  in  anything  wrong  or  dangerous. 
He  did  not  wish  to  unite  with  them  in  their  play,  and  plead 
ed  his  utter  ignorance  of  the  game  ;  but  his  objections  had 
no  weight.  They  said  "  it  was  perfectly  simple,"  and  so  in 
deed  it  was,  for  he  soon  found  that  by  a  little  attention  he 
could  play  his  part  as  well  as  the  rest,  although  not  with  the 
same  expedition.  To  him  there  appeared  but  little  meaning 
to  the  affair,  and  of  little  moment  whether  he  lost  or  won. 
The  stakes  were  small,  and  it  was  understood  that  at  the 
close  of  the  evening  each  was  to  have  his  own  again  ;  Evart 
remarked  to  him, 

"  You  see,  we  don't  play  for  money !" 

Henry  of  course  could  see  that ;  but  there  was  something 
he  could  not  see  into,  and  that  was  why  they  all  seemed  so 
interested  in  the  game,  and  the  more  so  the  longer  they 
played ;  until  at  length  some  were  much  excited.  Hard 
words  were  spoken,  and  language  used  which  Henry  did  not 
suppose  young  gentlemen  of  their  standing  in  society  ever 
indulged  in.  It  was  past  eleven  o'clock  when  the  party 
broke  up.  The  money  was  all  returned  to  the  owners,  and 
young  Mclntyre  taking  from  his  closet  a  decanter  of  raspberry 
cordial  and  glasses  for  each,  placed  them  on  the  table. 
"Now  boys,  although  we've  had  a  little  sparring,  we  must  all 
take  a  glass  of  cordial,  and  show  that  we  part  friends." 

"  I  say  aye,  aye,"  to  that,  said  Evart,  and  "aye,  aye,"  resound 
ed  on  all  sides.  The  cordiXl  was  tasted  and  highly  praised,  and 
one  or  two  helped  themselves  to  a  second  glass.  Good  feeling 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         123 

seemed  to  overflow,  and  all  parted  in  high  glee  after  making 
an  engagement  to  meet  on  another  evening  at  Evart's. 

It  was  12  o'clock  before  Henry  retired  to  his  room,  and  as 
he  threw  himself  into  a  chair  a  sense  of  sadness  came  over 
him,  and  a  rush  of  thought  quite  unfriendly  to  sleep.  He 
had  of  late  formed  a  habit  of  reviewing  the  scenes  of  the  day 
before  retiring  to  rest,  that  he  might  not  only  recall  favors 
received,  but  what  errors  in  judgment  be  might  have  com 
mitted,  or  how  in  any  way  he  had  departed  from  those 
precepts  by  which  he  resolved  to  be  guided. 

Never  had  he  been  so  at  a  loss  to  decide  as  to  whether  he 
had  done  right  or  wrong. 

That  the  day  had  not  been  passed  as  he  could  have  wished, 
nis  conscience  was  at  no  difficulty  in  deciding  The  only 
question  was,  "  Had  he  acted  as  firmly  as  he  ought  ?  Had  he 
not  suffered  himself  to  be  led  by  the  persuasion  of  others  in 
opposition  to  his  own  sense  of  propriety!  Many  excuses 
were  ready,  as  they  always  are,  to  palliate  our  own  short 
comings — and  Henry  had  to  look  at  things  in  different 
aspects  before  he  could  come  to  the  conclusion,  that  he  had 
been  from  circumstances,  compelled  to  do  as  he  had. 

B-ut  still  he  was  unhappy  !  He  did  not  feel  the  same  manly 
courage  which  he  had  been  so  conscious  of  for  some  time 
past.  He  did  not  feel  the  same  self-respect  which  he  had 
hitherto  maintained.  His  fashionable  garments  gave  him  no 
pleasure.  They  had  not  been  earned  by  his  own  industry. 
The  sight  of  them  brought  to  his  mind  a  sense  of  obligation ; 
he  felt  lowered  in  his  own  opinion ;  he  was  in  appearance 
what  he  was  not  in  reality,  and  he  could  not  help  the  feeling 
that  there  was  meanness  attached  to  such  false  colors. 

He  had  learned  nothing  through  the  day  that  he  could 
think  of,  for  which  he  would  be  the  better.  Profanity  had 
polluted  his  ears,  from  those  with  whom  he  had  associated  ! 
Trifling  subjects  had  been  the  topics  of  conversation — and 
unmeaning,  dangerous  amusements  engrossed  the  hours  of  the 
day  and  evening. 

There  was  flitting  through  his  mind,  too,  a  consciousness  of 
having  neglected  duty,  in  not  attending  to  the  delivery  of 
that  letter !  He  had  not  done  what  his  hand  found  to  do 
k<  with  his  might,"  and  in  spite  of  all  the  excuses  which  his 
mind  readily  suggested — he  w;«>  11^.  -mnletely  satisfied  by 


124  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OB, 

them.  He  remembered  likewise  the  advice  which  his  good 
friend  Captain  Marston  had  give.n  him,  and  regretted  most 
truly  that  he  had  in  the  least  deviated  from  it. 

Sleep  was  not  easily  obtained  under  such  circumstances — 
nor  did  he  awake  in  the  morning  refreshed. 

But  a  new,  bright  day  brought  stronger  resolves  "  to  be 
steadfast  in  the  path  of  duty." 

Evart,  as  usual,  was  not  up  the  next  morning  to  breakfast,  and 
Henry  thought  Mrs.  Marston  seemed  downcast.  Few  words 
were  passed  at  the  table,  and  he  began  to  feel  that  his  pres 
ence  was  not  agreeable,  and  resolved  he  would,  immediately 
after  calling  upon  the  gentleman  in  Broadway,  procure  for 
himself  a  boarding  place,  whether  successful  or  not  in  his 
application  to  them.  He  could  sustain  himself  for  a  few 
weeks  on  the  funds  he  had,  and  he  would  risk  the  future 
rather  than  be  dependent  upon  hospitality,  afforded  no  doubt 
as  a  mere  act  of  courtesy. 

As  he  arose  from  table  Mrs.  Marston  spoke — 

"  Master  Henry,  I  should  like  to  see  you  a  few  moments." 

And  she  led  the  way  into  an  adjoining  room. 

"I  wish  to  have  a  few  words  with  you  alone;  please  be 
seated.  I  suppose  you  are  now  going  to  look  for  a  situa 
tion  !" 

"  Yes,  madam ;  and  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  go  yesterday." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  as  well.  It  may  not,  how 
ever,  make  any  difference.  But  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you  is, 
that  I  hope  you  may  not  think  of  looking  for  a  place  to  board. 
I  suppose  you  are  aware  that  in  general,  merchants  do  not 
now  take  young  men  into  their  families.  If  you  engage  with 
them,  you  will  probably  get  a  stipulated  sum  as  salary  and 
provide  for  yourself. 

"  So  Captain  Marston  has  told  me,  madam." 

"  I  was  going  to  say  to  you  that  if  you  have  no  particular 
objections  to  remaining  here, it  is  my  wish  you  should  do  so; 
and  one  reason  is,J,hat  Evart  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  you. 
I  think  I  never  knew  him  to  feel  so  much  attached  to  a  com 
panion  as  he  does  to  you." 

Henry  blushed  deeply  as  he  replied : 

"  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  what  I  have  done  to  gain  his  good 
opinion." 

"  Perhaps  one  reason  is  that  he  finds  you  are  ready  if  you 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         125 

see  him  doing  wrong,  to  check  him  !  You  did  so  yesterday, 
did  you  not  ? 

Henry  remembered  some  little  conversation  which  had 
passed  between  him  and  Evart  on  their  way  from  Cato's. 

'' Evart  told  me  about  it;  he  is  a  frank,  open-hearted  boy. 
He  does  not  mean  to  do  wrong,  but,  as  you  see,  is  surrounded 
with  companions,  and  many  of  them  I  fear  are  not  calculated 
to  do  him  good.  But  it  is  hard  to  break  off  from  them. 
And  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to  my  mind,  and  I  know 
highly  gratifying  to  Evart,  to  have  you.  remain  as  a  member 
of  our  family." 

Henry  could  not  foresee  what  special  evils  might  result  from 
yielding  to  ihis  request,  stranger  as  he  was  to  the  new  life 
into  which  he  was  thrown.  And  he  could  think  of  no  reason 
why  he  should  make  objections  to  an  arrangement  which  was 
certainly  a  great  favor  to  him ;  he  therefore  pleasantly  acknow 
ledged  his  obligations  to  Mrs.  Marston  for  her  kind  offer,  and 
agreed  to  do  as  she  requested. 

Henry  is  at  length  off,  and  on  his  way  to  the  place  which 
has  been  upon  his  mind  so  constantly  for  some  days. 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  store,  for  it  was  a  dis 
tinguished  establishment,  and  he  had  read  the  names  several 
times  as  he  passed  through  Broadway,  while  riding  with  his 
companion. 

The  presentation  of  his  letter  procured  for  him  a  kind 
greeting.  The  gentlemen  accosted  him  very  pleasantly,  and 
even  the  tones  of  their  voices  made  Henry's  heart  glad;  he 
felt  that  he  should  like  to  serve  them. 

After  a  moment  passed  in  reading  the  letter,  one  of  them 
stepped  up  to  him. 

"  It  is  a  little  unfortunate  that  you  had  not  come  a  day 
sooner.  From  the  tenor  of  Captain  Marston's  letter,  and  his 
account  of  you,  we  should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  made 
an  arrangement  for  your  services,  at  least  to  have  given  you  a 
trial.  We  have  been  in  want  of  a  new  hand,  and  it  was  only 
yesterday  afternoon  that  we  engaged  one.  How  long  have 
you  been  in  town  ? 

Henry  promptly  told  ;  he  had  to  speak  quick,  for  bis  feel 
ings  were  too  much  excited  to  be  repressed  with  ease.  He 
told  also  the  reason  why  he  had  not  called  the  morning  after 
he  arrived.  * 


120  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

"  Aye,  aye,  my  lad  !"  And  the  elder  of  the  two  gentlemen 
put  his  hand  kindly  on  the  shoulder  of  the  youth.  "  You  see, 
now,  that  there  is  nothing  like  attending  to  whatever  we  have 
to  do  in  the  way  of  business  without  delay  !  Business  first, 
pleasure  afterwards."  But  seeing  that  Henry  already  felt 
deeply  chagrined  at  what  had  taken  place,  he  changed  the 
tenor  of  his  address  into  a  more  encouraging  strain.  "  But 
you  must  not  be  alarmed  at  the  first  mishap  !  I  should  at 
your  age  have  done  just  so,  and  a  little  worse.  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  remember  this  lesson;  it  may  save  you  many 
a  dollar,  and  when  you  get  a  chance  you  will  work  all  the 
harder." 

Henry  would  have  thanked  him  for  his  words  of  comfort, 
but  he  did  not  just  then  feel  as  if  he  dare  trust  himself  to 
speak.  He  was  dealing  with  men  whose  hearts  worldly 
prosperity  had  not  spoiled.  They  could  enter  into  all  his 
feelings.  They  knew  what  was  working  in  his  young  mind, 
and  how  good  it  was  to  have  a  friendly  word  and  a  helping 
hand  at  the  right  time,  and  the  same  gentleman  who  had 
been  speaking,  addressed  his  partner — 

"  Perhaps,  Mr.  Jessup,  we  may  hear  of  some  situation  for 
this  young  gentlemnn,  in  the  course  of  the  day !" 

"  We  may  possibly,  sir !  I  will  inquire  a  little  when  I 
go  out  by  and  by.  Are  you  particular  as  to  the  business  ?" 
addressing  Henry. 

"  Oh !  no,  sir." 

"  Then  call  here  in  the  course  of  the  day,  we  will  do  what 
we  can  for  you." 

How  sadly  Henry  felt  as  he  retraced  his  steps  through  the 
long  neat  store,  and  saw  the  clerks  busily  employed  behind 
the  counters,  we  need  not  say.  It  was  not  merely  a  disap 
pointment,  it  was  a  loss  in  consequence  of  his  own  want  of 
firmness  and  decision.  He  was  not  merely  unfortunate.  He 
had  missed  a  favorable  opportunity  to  have  begun  his  career 
with  a  long  established  house,  where  he  felt  very  sure  he 
would  have  had  a  fair  chance  to  make  his  way.  and  that  by 
his  own  neglect !  For  excuse  himself  as  he  might,  his  con 
science  convicted  him  of  want  of  firmness  in  not  doing  what 
he  believed  at  the  time  he  ought  to  do. 

He  did  not  care  to  return  immediately  to  Mrs.  Marston's 
for  fear  that  he  might  be  again  urged  by  Evart  to  go  off  upon 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         127 

some  excursion  of  pleasure.  And  pleasure,  in  the  way  Evart 
was  seeking  it,  was  very  abhorrent  to  his  feelings  just  then, 
nor  had  he  any  special  aim  in  going  anywhere.  So  he  walked 
along  among  the  crowd,  indulging  thoughts  not  very  agree 
able,  although  they  may,  by  the  deep  impression  they  were 
making  on  his  mind,  become  in  after  years,  beacons  to  warn 
him  of  danger. 

Suddenly  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  looking  round  he 
saw  Evart  running  up  to  the  side-walk.  A  young  man  was 
seated  beside  him  in  the  carriage.  Evart  sprang  to  the  pave 
ment  and  grasped  his  hand. 

"Thornton,  how  are  you!  You  fairly  gave  me  the  slip  this 
morning.  Have  you  been  to  see  the  counter-jumpers?" 
This  was  the  term  he  invariably  applied  to  the  drygoods  men, 
no  matter  how  respectable. 

"  What  luck  P; 

Henry  told  him  how  things  stood,  but  from  motives  of 
delicacy  did  not  mention  all  the  facts  in  the  case. 

"No  place  for  you.  ba!  Well,  never  mind,  there  are 
places  enough;  no  matter  if  you  don't  get  one  these  six 
months,  tou  know  you  are  to  stay  with  us,  so  keep  up  a 
good  heart.  '  As  {rood  fish  in  the  water  as  have  been  taken 
out  of  it.'  You  w'll  get  a  situation,  no  danger  of  that.  But, 
see  here,  have  you  got  vour  purse  with  you  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Have  you  twenty  dollars  that  you  can  spare  until  to 
night  ?  1  have  pot  out,  and  mother  is  short  this  morning!" 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly  ! "  And  Henry  opened  his  purse  at 
once,  an<i  withdrew  the  very  bill  that  Captain  Marston  gave 
him. 

•'  I  believe  that  is  a  twenty !" 

"  Twanty !  All  right — you  shall  have  it  this  evening  or 
•^TOfMTow  morning." 

"Oh,  no  matter  about  that;  you  know  T  shall  not  want  it 
«»st  now." 

And  in  a  moment  more  Evart  was  on  his  way — Henry  did 
sot  ask  whither!  He  was  but  too  glad  that  he  was  not 
asked  to  go  with  him.  The  loan  he  had  granted  was  quite  a 
relief  to  his  mind ;  he  rejoiced  that  in  any  way  ho  could 
make  some  return  for  the  many  favors  received  from  his 
friend. 


128  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

As  no  time  had  been  specified  when  he  should  call  upon 
the  gentleman  who  had  kindly  promised  to  make  some  effort 
on  his  behalf,  further  than  "  that  he  might  call  in  the  course 
of  the  day,"  he  concluded  to  drop  in  at  about  one  o'clock. 

No  sooner  did  he  enter  the  store  than  he  was  recognized, 
and  the  gentleman  who  had  made  the  promise  took  him  a 
little  one  side  into  the  less  busy  part  of  the  store. 

"  I  believe  I  have  got  a  situation  for  you.  But  I  must  tell 
you — the  firm  is  a  very  close,  calculating,  business  concern. 
You  can  only  have  one  hundred  dollars  a  year !  You  cannot 
live  on  that  and  pay  your  board !" 

"  I  am  not  obliged  to  pay  board  at  present,  sir."  And 
Henry  frankly  told  what  a  kind  offer  Mrs.  Marston  had  made 
him. 

"  You  are  quite  lucky,  then  !  But  let  me  see.  Has  she 
not  a  pretty  wild  son  ?  Fond  of  fast  horses,  etc.  You  must 
take  care ! " 

"  Oh  yes,  sir." 

"  Well  I  hope  you  will !  You  must  expect  to  work  hard, 
early  and  late — keep  your  eyes  open — and  if  they  speak 
harshly  to  you — never  mind — take  it  all  in  good  part." 

"  I  will,  sir." 

"  Well  then — come  with  me." 

The  manners  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  Henry  was  now 
introduced  were  in  strong  contrast  with  those  to  whom  his 
letter  had  been  addressed. 

A  few  short  questions  were  asked  him  in  a  rough,  abrupt 
manner— the  terras  were  mentioned — and  on  his  assenting  to 
them — he  was  set  to  work. 

And  here  we  must  now  leave  him  for  the  present,  in  order 
to  carry  on  other  parts  of  our  story. 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  VERNON  had  never  lost  sight  of  the  object  he  had  in 
view,  by  gaining  a  friendly  footing  with  Esquire  Thompson 
and  a  consequent  intimacy  with  his  family.  Many  facts  he 
had  ascertained  through  the  squire  himself,  and  also  by  con 
versations  with  Louise  from  time  to  time ;  he  had  in  an 
accidental  way  learned  many  little  particulars  which  he  care 
fully  noted  down.  But  nothing  had  he  found  out,  as  yet, 
which  gave  him  any  clew  to  the  great  fact  which  he  wished 
to  arrive  at. 

Occasionally  he  sent  a  letter  to  his  friends  the  Marstons, 
but  the  purport  of  them  was  rather  to  lead  their  minds  away 
from  the  subject  entirely,  and  to  help  them  bear  their  trial  as 
a  dispensation  of  Divine  Providence  wliich  would  never,  in 
all  probability,  be  cleared  up  in  this  world. 

The  reasons  which  Louise  had  assigned  for  her  belief  that 
Caroline  Jeralman  knew  some  things  concerning  her  which 
others  did  not,  had  awakened  in  his  mind,  some  very  strange 
suspicions  concerning  that  woman.  And  these  had  been 
confirmed  by  certain  strange  expressions  which  she  had 
dropped  in  his  hearing. 

He  had  taken  an  interest  in  her  from  the  fact  that  she 
seemed  to  be  an  outcast.  Not  that  people  shunned  her  or 
treated  her  with  any  unkindness.  But  she  avoided  society. 
She  was  seldom  seen  sitting  down  in  any  of  their  houses 
and  conversing  as  people  of  her  class  are  apt  to  do.  She 
never  appeared  to  take  any  interest  in  general  gossip,  but 
would  leave  the  work  she  had  finished,  or  take  that  which 
was  put  into  her  hands  to  do,  and  go  on  her  way  in  silence. 

It  was  at  her  request  that  Mr.  Vernon  had  called  the 
morning  in  which  he  was  first  introduced  to  the  reader,  and 
as  we  have  seen,  was  prevented  from  hearing  what  she  had  to 
s.-iy.  When  he  next  called,  which  was  a  few  days  after,  he 
found  her  not  disposed  to  be  communicative.  And  what 
appeared  to  him  very  singular,  she  was  evidently  unwilling  to 
manifest  the  same  interest  for  Louise,  which  had  been  so  pal 
pable  at  the  time  of  her  injury. 

V  129 


130  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST;   OR, 

All  this  but  increased  his  anxiety  to  probe  her  feelings. 
That  there  was  some  great  burden  upon  her  mind,  he  was 
very  sure,  for  she  had  once  asked  him  some  rather  singular 
questions  as  to  the  criminality  of  certain  acts,  "  and  what  he 
thought  of  the  binding  nature  of  an  oath  taken  to  conceal  a 
wrong  deed  ?"  He  had  answered  her  at  the  time  in  such  a 
manner  as  he  thought  the  questions  demanded,  without  any 
idea  that  possibly  she  herself  was  implicated.  But  since  his 
intimacy  with  Louise,  new  light  broke  into  his  mind,  and  he 
resolved,  if  possible,  to  know  more  of  the  secret  history  of 
Caroline.  He  became  convinced,  too,  that  she  was  not  so 
simple  minded  as  many  thought  her  to  be,  and  as  he  had 
himself  imagined ;  and  felt  the  necessity  of  approaching  the 
subject  he  wished  to  introduce  with  some  caution. 

More  than  a  month  had  elapsed  since  he  last  saw  her,  for 
he  had  been  to  the  city  and  returned,  and  had  been  occupied 
with  business  at  some  distance  from  Stratton. 

It  was  now  the  early  part  of  September,  and  as  an  apology 
for  calling  on  her,  he  made  inquiry  as  to  her  means  for  pro 
viding  herself  with  comforts  through  the  winter.  She  thanked 
him,  but  said,  "  she  thought  there  would  be  no  danger  that  she 
should  not  be  able  to  get  the  very  few  things  she  might  need." 

"Do  you  never  tire  of  your  lonely  life,  Caroline?" 

"  I  do  not  get  tired  of  it  because  of  being  alone.  It  seems 
most  natural  to  me,  it  is  so  many  years  now  !" 

"  How  long  is  it  that  you  have  thus  kept  by  yourself?" 

Caroline  paused  a  moment,  either  endeavoring  to  revive 
her  memory,  or  to  ascertain  perhaps  whether  the  inquiry  was 
made  with  any  design.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on  Mr.  Vernon, 
but  his  perfect  ease  of  manner,  no  doubt,  gave  her  assurance, 
for  she  replied, 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  many  years  since  I  have  lived  in  the  same 
way,  alone,  as  I  now  do.  But  you  know  a  person  may  be 
alone,  when  living  with  others.  Do  you  not  think,  sir,  that 
it  is  all  owing  to  the  feelings  of  the  heart,  whether  one  feels 
alone  or  not?" 

"No  doubt  that  is  true;  sometimes  an  engrossing  subject 
completely  absorbs  the  mind,  so  that  we  take  no  interest  in 
persons  or  scenes  around  us.  Under  such  circumstances,  we 
may  be  in  the  midst  of  company,  and  yet  almost  unconscious 
that  any  one  is  near  us." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         131 

u  I  know  that  to  be  true." 

"  But  in  general,  Caroline,  it  is  not  well  for  us  to  allow  one 
idea  thus  to  occupy  our  inind.  It  may  lead  to  very  serious 
consequences." 

"But  what  if  you  cannot  help  it?  What  if  it  will  stay 
there  whether  or  no  ?  Sleeping  or  waking — alone,  or  among 
people — all  the  time  a-hanging  at  your  heart." 

"  Sometimes  relief  is  to  be  obtained  by  unburdening  the 
mind,  and  telling  our  grief  to  a  friend.  Even  the  pangs  of 
guilt  are,  at  times,  relieved  by  a  confession  of  the  crime." 

The  look  which  she  gave  Mr.  Vernon  was  full  of  intense 
interest,  as  she  replied, 

"  What !  a  confession  if  there  was  no  power  to  put  the 
thing  right «" 

"  Yes,  even  then !  For  it  has  been  found  that  persons 
guilty  of  the  most  heinous  crimes — such  as  murder,  have  so 
suffered  from  the  torment  of  their  conscience,  as  to  yield 
themselves  up  voluntarily  to  the  law,  finding  a  relief  from 
confession,  even  in  the  prospect  of  death." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  have  heard  of  such  cases,  and  I  do  not 
wonder !" 

Suddenly  she  paused,  as  if  she  was  about  to  say  too  much. 
Mr.  Vernon  was  greatly  excited,  but  he  endeavored  to 
maintain  an  aspect  of  indifference.  In  a  few  moments  she 
asked : 

"  But  what  if  they  could  not  tell  ?" 

"  That  is  supposing  an  impossibility,  Caroline  !  Any  one 
who  had  been  guilty  of  a  crime,  and  possessed  understanding 
enough  to  feel  remorse  on  account  of  it,  could  certainly  make 
it  known  if  so  disposed." 

"  What,  if  they  had  taken  a  most  solemn  oath  before  God, 
that  they  never  wouid  tell,  because,  may  be,  other  folks  might 
suffer  too !" 

"Caroline!" — Mr.  Vernon's  manner  was  quite  altered — 
"  from  the  manner  of  asking  these  questions,  I  must  draw 
the  conclusion,  that  you  are  yourself  troubled  on  account  of 
some  evil  doing,  either  for  which  you  are  guilty,  or  about 
which  you  know,  and  are  unwilling  to  make  a  revelation.  I 
do  not  ask  you  what  it  is  ;  but  listen  to  me.  If  you  are  con 
scious  that  your  silence  is  in  any  way  continuing  a  wrong, 
which  you  or  another  has  perpetrated ;  if  you  know  that 


132  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

every  day  you  keep  back  this  secret,  it  is  the  cause  of  anguish 
to  some  hearts.  You  are  heaping  up  unto  yourself  a  terrible 
judgment,  and  God  will  not  be  slow  to  bring  it  upon 
you." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon  !  oh,  Mr.  Vernon  !  Do,  sir,  please  stop ; 
oh,  say  no  more.  My  heart  is  all  eat  up  with  pain  and  sor 
row  !  oh,  don't  add  to  it." 

"  I  have  no  wish,  Caroline,  to  add  to  your  distress,  from 
whatever  source  it  arises;  but  I  greatly  fear  you  are  keeping 
in  ypur  own  breast  some  secret  that  ought  to  be  known,  and 
consequently  you  are  the  cause  of  intense  suffering,  which 
may  yet  lead  to  the  loss  of  life  or  the  loss  of  reason." 

She  spoke  not,  but  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her  whole 
frame  trembling  visibly,  looked  down  upon  the  ground,  and 
Mr.  Vernon  continued — 

"  And  are  you  willing  thus  to  make  not  only  one  but  many 
human  beings  wretched  ?  Are  you  willing  to  break  the 
heart  of  an  innocent  lovely  young  creature,  and  perhaps  bring 
her  to  an  untimely  end,  when  one  word  of  your  mouth  might 
alleviate  her  misery,  and  possibly  fill  her  with  happiness." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon  !  who  do  you  mean?" 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  me,  Caroline,  to  name  the  person ! 
your  own  conscience  is  fully  alive  on  the  subject,  and  I  now 
tell  .you  that  my  own  suspicions  are  aroused ;  you  have  al 
ready  confessed  enough  to  prove  that  you  have  been  guilty 
of  a  great  wrong,  or  have  been  an  accomplice  with  others  in 
so  doing.  I  have  been  your  friend,  Caroline,  and  would  not 
willingly  bring  evil  upon  you,  but  I  have  learned  from  your 
own  lips  some  things  that  alarm  me,  and  depend  upon  it  I 
shall  not  leave  the  matter  thus." 

The  tone  of  voice  in  which  Mr.  Vernon  spoke,  was  in 
marked  contrast  with  that  in  which  he  had  usually  addressed 
her.  Caroline  knew  that  his  general  deportment  was  re 
markably  mild  ;  and  she  also  knew  that  he  was  not  a  man  to 
say  what  he  did  not  mean ;  no  doubt,  too,  she  remembered 
some  things,  which  in  a  moment  of  excitement  she  had  uttered 
before  Louise,  and  which  probably  had  been  told  Mr.  Vernon. 

She  sat  down  and  wept  bitterly.  Mr.  Vernon  was  intensely 
anxious  to  follow  up  the  effect  his  words  had  produced,  but 
feared  to  say  more  just  then ;  and  he  remained  a  silent  lis 
tener  of  this  outburst  of  grief,  in  momentary  expectation  that 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         133 

she  would  unburden  her  mind,  and  bring  to  light  the  secret 
cloistered  there. 

The  effect  produced  by  what  he  had  said,  was  however  to 
tally  different  from  his  expectations. 

As  soon  as  Caroline  had  sufficiently  recovered  the  com 
mand  of  her  voice,  she  answered  him  in  a  manner  that  con 
vinced  him,  that  she  was  not  to  be  moved  by  the  motives  he 
had  suggested. 

"  Mr.  Vernon,  you  have  spoken  hard  to  me,  but  I  do  not 
lay  it  up  against  you,  for  I  know  you  mean  well  for  others, 
and  I  don't  believe  you  wish  any  ill  to  me;  but  you  don't 
know  me  nor  my  trouble ;  if  you  did,  I  know  you  would  not 
have  spoken  as  you  have.  Whatever  I  know,  or  whatever  it 
may  be  that  is  lying  on  my  heart,  I  am  as  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  as  any  poor  mortal  can  be.  But  I  tell  you  now,  once 
for  all,  suffering  can't  wring  it  from  me  ;  if  it  could  it  would 
have  done  it  long  ago,  for  I  have  suffered  as  no  poor  creature 
ever  did,  for  many  long  weary  years.  You  may  bring  me  to 
justice,  as  you  say  ;  you  may  torture  my  body  ;  you  may  take 
away  my  life  ;  but  my  tongue  will  never,  never  tell  what  it 
would  have  told  long  ago  if  I  had  been  free  to  do  so." 

Mr.  Vernon  was  not  easily  turned  asi  le  from  any  course 
which  he  might  have  adopted  for  the  accomplishment  of  a 
desired  end ;  but  the  manner  of  Caroline  assured  him  that 
she  spoke  words  which  came  from  her  heart ;  and  what  she 
had  uttered  unfolded  to  him  more  than  he  had  before  con 
jectured  of  the  peculiarity  of  her  situation. 

One  more  question  he  wished  to  ask,  and  he  used  as  sooth 
ing  tones  as  possible — 

"  Is  there  any  hope,  Caroline,  that  you  will  ever  be  free  to 
make  this  communication,  which  you  say  you  are  so  anxious 
to  make  ?" 

A  moment  she  hesitated,  and  then,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
her  eye  raised  to  heaven,  she  replied — 

"  God  only  knows  !" 

A  few  days  after  this  interview,  Mr.  Vernon  received  a 
letter  through  the  post-office,  written,  indeed,  in  a  hand  not 
very  legible,  but  sufficiently  so  to  enable  him  to  decipher  its 
contents.  It  read  as  follows — 

"  I  may  never  see  you  again.     I  go  to  try  once  more  what 


134  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

I  can  do,  and  see  if  there  is  any  hope  for  me.  I  have  done 
it  before  at  the  risk  of  my  life.  This  may  be  the  ending  of 
me ;  but  if  it  is,  I  should  like  you  to  know  that  I  harbor  no 
ill  will  for  what  you  have  said,  because  you  don't  know  me, 
nor  all  about  me.  C.  J." 

From  the  tenor  of  this  letter  he  surmised  that  Caroline  had 
left  the  place,  and  on  going  over  to  her  lone  cabin  found  that 
it  was  deserted.  The  door  was  closed,  but  it  opened  on  lift 
ing  the  latch.  There  was  nothing  within  but  the  rude  ma 
terials  of  which  her  bedstead  had  been  constructed.  The 
bedding  had  been  removed,  as  also  the  few  articles  of  furni 
ture  which  Mr.  Vernon  remembered  having  seen  there. 

On  inquiring  of  the  nearest  neighbor,  he  ascertained  that 
Caroline  had  left  now  some  days.  A  few  things  she  had 
brought  there  and  asked  them  to  take  care  of  for  her,  and 
said,  "  if  she  never  came  back,  or  if  they  did  not  hear  from  her 
in  the  course  of  a  month,  they  might  keep  them  or  give  them 
away."  She  declined  telling  them  whither  she  was  going  ;  she 
said  "  it  was  uncertain  ;"  and  that  was  all  the  information  Mr. 
Vernon  could  procure ;  nor  could  he,  from  all  the  inquiries  he 
had  opportunity  to  make  concerning  her,  find  any  one  who 
had  seen  her,  or  that  could  give  information  as  to  the  direc 
tion  she  took  on  leaving  the  place. 


CHAPTER  XL 

ON  the  old  stage  road  leading  from  the  town  of  Rye  to 
New  Rochelle  there  stood,  forty  years  ago,  a  dwelling  of  more 
than  common  pretensions,  known,  for  many  miles  round,  as 
the  "  Tyrrel  Place."  It  was  situated  at  some  distance  from 
the  highway,  and  approached  by  a  broad  avenue  lined  on 
either  side  by  large  locust  trees.  The  entrance  to  the  avenue 
was  distinguished  by  heavy  stone  pillars  with  ornamented  caps 
and  iron  gates. 

Near  to  the  entrance  and  within  the  high  stone  walls 
which  inclosed  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  mansion,  might  have 
been  seen  a  small  stone  tenement  of  one  story  in  height, 
whose  roof  rose  but  little  above  the  inclosure.  and  which,  no 
doubt,  was  designed  at  its  erection  as  a  dwelling  for  the  over 
seer  of  the  estate,  but,  at  the  date  of  our  story,  was  used  as  a 
porter's  lodge,  for  the  iron  gates  were  fastened  by  a  heavy 
lock,  and  no  admittance  could  possibly  be  obtained  except  by 
the  hand  of  some  one  within  the  inclosure. 

The  mansion  stood  upon  elevated  ground,  although  not, 
properly  speaking,  on  a  hill,  for  the  lawn  in  front  and  the 
adjacent  fields  for  some  distance  presented  to  the  view  of  the 
traveller  almost  a  dead  level ;  and  yet,  as  the  eye  passed  the 
mansion  and  surveyed  the  vast  prospect  which  lay  stretched 
out  in  the  west,  it  was  very  evident  that  the  plateau  upon 
which  the  house  stood  was  far  above  the  outspread  scenery 
beyond  it 

The  mansion  from  the  road  could  be  but  partially  seen 
through  intervals  between  the  trees,  and  yet  the  imperfect 
view  gave  an  impression  of  substance  and  old-fashioned  aris 
tocratic  taste.  There  was  nothing  fine  or  dazzling,  but  an 
appearance  of  solidity,  ample  space,  and  a  general  fitness  in 
the  dwelling  and  its  appurtenances  to  each  other. 

It  had,  when  originally  built,  been  intended  doubtless  for 
a  large  household  ;  for  it  had  none  of  those  attachments 
which,  like  an  after-thought,  we  find  connected  with  many 
country  mansions — additions  made  as  necessity  demanded. 

135 


136  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

But  the  area  inclosed  beneath  its  roof  seemed  to  have  suffi 
cient  space  for  the  accommodation  of  a  larger  number  than 
is  usually  collected  in  a  private  family. 

Large  dormer  windows,  each  with  a  sweeping  roof  of  its 
own,  on  three  sides  of  the  building,  heavy  cornices  under  the 
eaves,  and  heavy  mouldings  over  the  windows  and  around 
the  doors,  were  the  only  ornaments,  even  if  they  were  de 
signed  as  such. 

"Two  immense  trees  of  weeping  willow  stood  at  equal  dis 
tances  on  each,  end,  about  midway  between  the  front  and 
rear,  and  with  their  wide-spread  and  drooping,  branches, 
added  much  to  the  imposing  effect  of  the  premises  as  viewed 
from  the  road. 

We  have  given  these  few  particulars  merely  to  refresh  the 
memory  of  our  older  readers  who  may  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  journeying  in  that  direction.  The  house  and  all  its 
appurtenances  have  long  since  disappeared.  The  elements 
commenced  its  destruction,  and  railroad  engineers  have  com 
pleted  the  devastation ;  nothing  remains  but  the  stone  fences 
and  the  porter's  lodge,  now  a  snug  farm-house. 

At  the  period  when  the  scenes  transpired  which  we  are 
delineating,  two  females  constituted  the  chief  members 
of  the  family  occupying  the  mansion.  The  elder  of  the  two, 
a  lady  then  far  advanced  in  life,  was  properly  the  mistress  of 
the  domain.  The  estate  belonged  to  her,  and  from  her  it 
took  its  name,  "  the  Tyrrel  Place,"  that  being  the  ruaiden 
name  of  the  lady,  she  never  having  made  up  her  mind  to 
change  it. 

She  had  always  been  noted  as  a  person  with  some  un 
pleasant  peculiarities ;  among  these  were  a  proud  spirit  and 
a  high  temper.  Perhaps  on  this  account  she  had  never  mar 
ried,  either  afraid  to  place  a  master  over  herself,  or  other 
persons  afraid  of  placing  a  mistress  over  them.  Whichever 
reason  operated  to  keep  her  single  is  of  no  consequence  now, 
nor  was  it  at  the  time  we  are  recording.  She  was  becoming 
quite  infirm,  and  was  getting  far  advanced  in  life,  so  that  for 
some  years  she  had  not  been  the  administratrix  of  her  own 
affairs. 

Some  seventeen  years  since,  she  had  received  under  her  roof 
a  lady  just  past  the  heyday  of  youth,  a  niece,  although  rather 
called  so  by  courtesy  than  for  any  real  relationship,  she  being 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         137 

the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  who  had  married,  for  his  second 
wife,  a  younger  sister  of  Miss  Tyrrel.  This  sister  of  Miss 
Tyrrel  lived  but  a  few  years  after  being  married,  leaving  also 
a  daughter  at  her  death — a  lovely  girl  of  nine  years  of  age. 

Strange  as  it  may  appear,  for  this  pretty  scion  of  her  own 
house  Miss  Tyrrel  seemed  to  have  no  sympathy,  and  trans 
ferred  whatever  affection  she  had  to  spare  to  the  elder  sister. 
That  there  was  a  greater  similarity  in  character  between  the 
latter  and  herself  all  who  knew  them  allowed,  but  many  sur 
mised  that  flattery  and  much  pains-taking  to  gratify  pe 
culiar  tastes  had  undermined  the  aunt's  interest  in  her  own 
niece — the  more  lovely  of  the  two — and  finally  brought 
about  a  union,  beneath  the  roof  of  Miss  Tyrrel,  of  the  elder 
sister  and  herself. 

The  immediate  cause  of  removal  from  the  house  of  her 
father — a  gentleman  of  independent  circumstances — was  a 
violent  antipathy  which  Miss  Letitia  Hasbrook,  or  Miss  Lettie, 
as  she  was  usually  called,  indulged,  against  the  marriage  of  her 
younger  sister.  Some  said  it  was  jealousy,  on  account  of  the 
attractive  charms  which  this  sister  possessed  ;  and  some  said 
it  was  chagrin  because  of  her  own  single  state,  as  years  were 
accumulating  fast  upon  her ;  but  Miss  Lettie  herself  declared 
it  was  only  on  account  of  the  low  connection  which  her  sister 
was  about  to  form.  She  did,  indeed,  lay  all  the  stress  upon 
that  point,  and  resolved,  when  she  found  her  protestations 
were  not  likely  to  avail  anything,  to  accept  her  aunt's  invita 
tion  to  make  her  house  her  future  home. 

As  Miss  Lettie  had,  on  leaving  her  father's  house,  made 
some  rash  vows,  in  reference  to  never  entering  it  again,  it 
behoved  her  to  use  all  possible  means  to  gain  a  firm  foot-hold 
in  her  new  home.  And  very  effectually  she  accomplished  that 
object,  for,  at  the  time  we  are  chronicling,  and  for  some 
years  previous,  her  word  was  law  throughout  the  household 
and  the  whole  domain. 

Miss  Tyrrel  was  now  fast  approaching  the  end  of  her  career, 
enfeebled  in  body  and  mind ;  it  would  have  been  utterly  out 
of  her  power  to  withdraw  the  reins  of  government,  so  long 
intrusted  to  her  niece,  even  had  she  dared  to  do  so.  And  as 
it  was  well  understood  that  Miss  Lettie  had  also  been  made 
sole  heiress  to  the  estate  of  her  aunt,  all  who  depended  upon 
the  good  will  of  its  owner — and  such  dependence  was  much 


138  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

more  common  than  now — were,  of  course,  more  or  less  soli 
citous,  according  to  their  circumstances,  to  please,  in  all 
things,  the  "  young  mistress,"  as  she  was  styled. 

Of  all  who  obsequiously  attended  to  her  commands,  none 
was  so  distinguished  as  old  Robin  Byfield,  who  lived  in  the 
little  stone  house  by  the  gate,  and  kept  its  key  by  night  and 
by  day.  And  no  one  of  them  all  seemed  to  have  so  much 
power  with  the  "  young  mistress,"  and  consequently  carried 
so  high  a  head  among  his  compeers  and  had  so  little  of  their 
good  will. 

To  account  for  Robin's  power  and  influence  many  stories 
were  put  in  circulation,  but  only  privately  among  themselves. 
These  stories  never  by  any  possibility  could  reach  the  ears  of 
Miss  Lettie,  for  she  had  studied  too  well  the  art  of  governing 
to  allow  any  freedom  of  communication  between  herself  and 
her  domestics,  especially  upon  personal  matters;  nor  were  they 
likely  to  reach  the  ears  of  Robin  except  from  the  lips  of  some 
reprobate  who  had  incurred  either  his  displeasure  or  that  of 
"  the  mistress,"  and  was  consequently  discharged.  At  such 
times,  in  the  meting  out  of  the  delinquent's  wrath,  some  ugly 
hints  would  be  thrown  out,  such  as — 

"  The  devil  will  have  his  own  yet ;"  or  "  you  will  pay 
pretty  dear  for  your  money  when  the  devil  gets  his  own." 

Robin  was  at  times  compelled  to  hear  such  short  sermons, 
and  the  only  way  to  help  himself  was  by  getting  out  of  the 
way  as  soon  as  possible. 

Among  the  stories  that  were  told,  and  by  some  believed, 
was,  "That  Robin  had,  some  years  ago,  received  quite  a  sum 
of  money — they  said  a  thousand  dollars — for  some  service  he 
performed  for  the  special  benefit  of  Miss  Lettie."  How  the 
story  originated,  no  one  could  tell ;  but  that  he  had  more 
than  that  sum  of  money  on  loan,  here  and  there,  was  a  fact 
well  ascertained.  Nor  did  Robin  deny  it;  but  always  asserted 
that  it  had  accumulated  from  his  wages. 

Another  disagreeable  story  which  circulated  respecting 
him,  was,  "  That  he  had,  for  some  reason,  driven  away  from 
her  home,  his  only  daughter."  That  she  had  left,  was  certain ; 
and  whether  she  had  died,  or  was  still  living,  no  one  then  knew  ; 
nor  could  Robin  ever  be  induced  to  give  them  any  satisfac 
tion  concerning  her. 

The  probability,  as  many  thought,  was,  that  Robin  being 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         139 

very  arbitrary  and  tyrannical,  where  he  had  full  power,  he 
had  so  exercised  his  authority,  as  either  to  alarm  or  disgust 
the  young  woman ;  and  to  avoid  all  trouble  from  that  source 
she  had  fled  from  him,  and  so  successfully  eluded  bis  search, 
that  he  was  really  as  ignorant  whether  she  was  living  as  they 
were. 

There  were  occasional  visitors  at  the  "Tyrrel  place." 
Some  of  the  old  families  settled  in  that  vicinity,  and  others 
at  quite  a  distance,  were  at  times  admitted  by  Robin  through 
the  inner  portal.  But  these  visits  were  by  no  means  fre 
quent  ;  and  as  no  access  could  be  had  to  the  dwelling  but 
through  the  entrance,  of  which  Robin  kept  the  key,  the  in 
mates  were  never  troubled  by  strange  travellers  on  the  road, 
either  rich  or  poor — not  even  peddlers  being  allowed  the 
privilege  of  opening  their  packs  and  exhibiting  their  tempting 
wares. 

To  this  rule,  however,  there  was  one  exception.  Old  Sam 
Truesdale  had  a  free  pass  through  the  iron  gate,  and  although 
Robin  would,  at  times,  make  objections,  and  endeavor  to 
compel  the  man  to  pass  on  with  his  pack,  he  was  not  able  to 
accomplish  it.  Sam  would  never  take  no  for  an  answer. 
Robin  had  been  ordered  in  his  presence,  by  the  "  young 
mistress,"  "  always  to  allow  Mr.  Truesdale  the  privilege  of 
coming  in  whenever  he  happened  along  that  way." 

Why  the  privilege  should  have  been  granted  him  in 
preference  to  others,  Robin  did  not  know ;  and  perhaps  for 
that  reason  had  taken  a  particular  dislike  to  the  peddler. 
Nor  could  Robin  understand  why  it  took  so  long  to  buy  a 
few  "  nick  nacks."  He  often  said,  "  a  man  might  have  bar 
gained  for  the  whole  pack,  piece  by  piece,  in  the  time  the 
'young  mistress'  had  been  buying  a  few  dollars  worth  of  his 
dear  things." 

But  "the  mistress"  had  reasons  for  detaining  old  Sam,  as 
well  as  for  her  command  that  he  should  always  be  ad 
mitted. 

Secluded  as  she  was  from  intercourse  with  the  world, 
although  almost  entirely  her  own  fault,  she  had  still  a  desire 
to  hear  of  what  was  transpiring  in  certain  parts  of  it ;  and 
from  no  other  source  could  she  get  such  direct  and  reliable 
information  as  from  Mr.  Truesdale. 

His   route   lay  through    that    part   of  the  country,  and 


14:0  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  ;    OK, 

among  those  families  with  which,  in  her  early  days,  she  had 
been  familiar ;  and  although  with  some  of  them  she  would 
by  no  means  have  any  intercourse ;  and  her  pride  would  not 
allow  her  even  to  ask  Mr.  Truesdale  any  questions  concerning 
them ;  yet  she  would  be  very  careful  not  to  interrupt  him, 
while  in  the  progress  of  retailing  his  particular  accounts  of 
all  he  had  heard  and  seen. 

Miss  Lettie  would  always  be  looking  over  the  pack  for 
something  she  could  not  find,  and  would  be  sure  in  the  end 
to  buy  enough  to  compensate  him  for  the  trouble  she  had 
caused  him  in  her  search  among  his  wares. 

On  the  particular  occasion,  however,  to  which  we  have  had 
reference  in  our  introduction  of  Mr.  Truesdale,  he  had  been 
made  the  bearer  of  a  dispatch  to  the  young  mistress,  which  at 
first  she  seemed  almost  unwilling  to  handle ;  it  was  such  a 
very  plain  sort  of  a  thing — being  a  small  package  in  the 
form  of  a  letter — the  wrapper  of  coarse  brown  paper,  and 
tied  up  with  a  tow  string. 

The  name,  however,  "  Miss  Letitia  Hasbrook,"  was  quite 
legibly  written  on  the  outside,  and  she  could  not  very  well 
refuse  to  receive  it,  although,  she  asked  him  in  a  very  sharp, 
harsh  manner  as  she  took  it  into  her  hand : 

"  Where  did  you  get  this?" 

"  I  can  tell  you  about  where  I  received  it,  madam.  It  was 
on  the  main  road  just  beyond  the  bridge  over  Willow  Creek; 
but  who  it  was  that  handed  it  to  me  is  beyond  me  to  say ; 
for  she  declined  giving  her  name,  and  it  is  no  one  that  I 
have  ever  seen  before,  much  as  I  have  travelled  these  parts 
the  last  twelve  years." 

"  Why  did  you  undertake  to  be  the  bearer  of  such  a  mis 
sive  to  me  ?  It  is  from  some  beggar,  no  doubt,  who  thinks 
in  this  way  to  get  round  my  orders  to  the  gate-keeper." 

And  so  saying  the  lady  threw  the  unseemly  thing  back 
towards  the  peddler,  who  was  just  in  the  act  of  gathering  up 
the  folds  of  his  pack  preparatory  to  the  strapping. 

He  appeared  to  be  much  confounded,  not  only  at  the  be 
havior  of  the  lady ;  but  also,  as  to  what  disposition  he  should 
make  of  the  letter.  He  picked  it  up,  however,  and  straight 
ening  himself,  kept  his  eye  upon  the  letter  while  making  his 
apology : 

"It  is  unlucky  for  me,  indeed,  that  I  have  had  anything  to 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         141 

do  in  the  matter;  but  I  assure  the  lady  it  was  none  of  my 
seeking.  A  decent  dressed  youngerly  woman  came  up  to 
me  out  of  the  lane  that  runs,  as  the  lady  knows-,  just  beyond 
the  brook  across  the  highway :  says  she,  '  are  you  designing 
to  stop  at  Tyrrel  place?'  'I  am,'  says  I.  'I  have  a  message 
here,  which  I  want  to  be  put  into  the  hands  of  the  young 
mistress.' " 

"  Did  she  say  the  '  young  mistress  ?' "  said  Miss  Lettie, 
quickly  interrupting. 

u  She  did,  madam ;  and  then  I  asked,  '  who  may  I  say 
that  it  is  from  ?'  I  asked  this  question,  my  lady,  for  my 
heart  misgave  me  that  there  might  be  something  wrong  about 
it.  '  It  will  be  of  no  consequence  to  have  the  name,'  she 
said,  '  the  young  mistress  would  know  the  name,  and  would, 
no  doubt,  be  much  obliged  for  the  receipt  of  it;  for  it  con 
tained  things  of  consequence  for  her  to  know.'  I  then  asked 
her  why  she  could  not  hand  it  to  old  Robin,  and  let  him 
deliver  it,  and  her  answer  struck  me  very  queer :  '  Old 
Robin  might  want  to  know  what  is  inside  of  it ;  for  he  would 
know  the  handwriting  on  the  outside,  and  he  has  no  good 
will  to  me.'  Well,  thinks  I,  if  this  is  all  so,  and  it  is  what 
concerns  the  lady  herself,  it  can  be  but  reasonable  to  do  as 
I  am  asked  to.  But  what  I  am  to  do  with  the  thing  now,  I 
know  not." 

Whether  the  young  mistress  was  really  affected  with  com 
passion  for  the  dilemma  of  the  peddler,  or  with  a  curiosity  to 
examine  the  contents  of  the  letter,  we  will  not  attempt  to 
decide.  She  merely  bade  him  "  leave  it  on  the  table ;"  and 
glad  to  get  out  of  the  way,  as  he  had  now  finished  bis  busi 
ness,  the  pack  was  quickly  strapped,  and  he  soon  walking  at 
a  brisk  pace  down  the  avenue. 

It  was  not  long  after  his  exit  before  the  despised  packet 
was  taken  up  and  its  tow  string  untied.  A  letter,  in  the 
same  handwriting  as  the  envelope,  fell  out,  and  the  lady 
quickly  glanced  her  eye  over  it  towards  the  signature,  which 
consisted  of  two  letters,  J.  B. 

No  sooner  did  she  see  them,  than  the  color  flew  from  her 
face,  and  she  immediately  took  her  seat.  For  awhile  she  let 
the  manuscript  lie  on  her  lap — herself  absorbed  in  deep 
thought — and  then  taking  it  up  read  carefully  every  word. 
And  again  it  lay  in  her  lap,  while  she  sat  and  rocked  herself 


TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  }   OK, 

with  that  irregular  motion  which  betokens  some  inward 
struggle.  Then  the  bell  was  rung,  and  a  servant  maid  soon 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"  Tell  Jupiter  that  I  wish  him  to  have  the  coach  ready  for 
me  by  three  o'clock  this  afternoon  ;  tell  him  to  be  punctual." 

At  the  appointed  time,  the  very  plain  though  respectable 
establishment  belonging  to  the  Tyrrel  place  was  in  readi 
ness,  and  Miss  Lettie,  arrayed  in  a  very  plain  dress,  entered 
the  vehicle. 

"  Whare  to,  missus  ?" 

"  Drive  to  the  east  end  of  Bascom's  lane,  as  far  as  the 
haunted  house." 

Jupiter  was  greatly  astonished,  and  had  it  been  towards 
evening,  would  almost  have  ventured  to  remonstrate.  He 
now,  however,  merely  opened  his  eyes  so  as  to  show  more  of 
the  white  than  was  natural,  being  very  sure  first  that  the  lady 
was  not  in  a  position  to  take  cognizance  thereof. 

Robin  was  ready  the  moment  he  heard  the  roll  of  the  car 
nage,  to  open  the  gate,  and  was  standing  beside  one  of  the 
portals  with  his  hat  in  hand,  when  Jupiter  was  requested  to 
halt. 

"  Robin,  as  soon  as  you  have  closed  the  gates,  take  your 
seat  beside  Jupiter  ;  I  may  want  you." 

Robin  well  knew  there  were  no  questions  to  be  asked 
as  to  why  or  where ;  be  therefore  did  as  he  was  ordered, 
and  the  carriage  went  on  in  silence  towards  the  place  of 
destination. 

As  it  approached  the  spot,  and  Jupiter  began  to  rein  up 
his  horses  to  one  side  of  the  road,  Robin  could  not  help  ex 
claiming  to  Jupiter, 

"  You  are  not  going  to  stop  here  1" 

The  only  answer  he  received  was  a  most  significant  shake 
of  the  head  on  the  part  of  Jupiter  and  a  peculiar  twist  of 
his  features — very  expressive  indeed,  but  conveying  no  intel 
ligence  whatever  to  the  inquiring  Robin. 

Accompanying  this  pantomime  was  a  prompt  order  from 
the  old  black,  "  To  get  quick  down  and  open  the  door  for 
the  mistress." 

As  the  lady  descended  from  the  carriage  she  very  quietly 
said, 

"  You  can  follow  me,  Robin." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         143 

Whatever  reluctance  Robin  felt,  he  dared  not  manifest  the 
least  hesitancy,  but  at  a  respectful  distance  walked  after  the 
lady. 

Just  before  reaching  the  house,  which  was  an  old  dilapidat 
ed  building,  at  some  distance  from  the  road  and  almost  hid 
den  from  it  by  the  scrub  pines  and  birches  which  had  grown 
here  unmolested,  the  "  young  mistress  "  turned  to  Robin  : 

*'  You  can  remain  here  until  I  come  out ;  or  until  I  call 
you." 

And  then  she  walked  forward  and  entered  the  building. 
Standing  within  the  door  of  a  back  room  was  a  female,  who 
immediately  withdrew  into  the  room  as  soon  as  the  entrance 
of  Miss  Lettie  was  noticed,  and  thither  the  latter  advanced, 
and  as  she  entered  the  apartment,  paused,  and  fixed  a  steady 

faze  at  the  female,  who  was  standing  near  the  centre,  with 
er  hands  clasped  before  her,  holding  her  bonnet,  which  she 
had  removed  from  her  head.  A  low  courtesy  was  all  the 
salutation  she  made  on  the  lady's  entrance,  and  one  glance 
from  her  eyes.  They  were  then  fixed  upon  the  floor,  as 
she  stood  waiting  to  be  addressed. 

"  Is  this  really  you,  Jane  ?" 

"  It  is  myself,  Miss  Lettie.  I  hope  I  have  not  altered  so 
but  my  lady  can  recognize  her  old  servant." 

"  You  were  never  a  servant  of  mine,  Jane." 

"  Not  really  just  yours,  although  I  served  your  aunt  from 
my  childhood  ;  until  that  dreadful  day  which  sent  me  forth  a 
wanderer.  I  have  served  you  though,  Miss  Lettie  ;  that  you 
can't  deny." 

"  And  you  was  paid  for  your  service,  and  well  paid.  Leav 
ing  your  place  was  a  voluntary  act  on  your  part." 

"  I  don't  know  as  the  past  is  worth  bringing  up.  The  mo 
ney  I  have  never  touched.  My  heart  misgave  me,  and  I  left 
it  with  my  father.  I  dared  not  touch  it.  I  am  here  now,  not 
to  bring  up  the  past,  but  to  ask  you,  as  you  value  a  poor  crea 
ture's  peace,  to  let  me  off  from  the  oath  which  you  only  can 
do,  Miss  Lettie  ;  and  you  can  do  it !" 

"  Stop,  Jane.  I  wish  not  to  hear  one  word  on  that  sub 
ject.  It  can  do  no  good,  now.  What  has  been  done  cannot 
now  be  helped,  even  if  we  wished  to." 

"  Oh,  but  it  can,  Miss  Lettie.  The  sorrow,  and  the  tears, 
and  the  anguish  of  spirit  which  those  have  suffered,  you  know 


144  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

of,  cannot  I  know  be  recalled  ;  but  the  evil  can  yet  be  re 
paired." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?"  and  the  lady  spoke  in  a  tone  of 
voice  that  showed  she  was  highly  excited. 

"  I  say,  it  can  be  repaired." 

"  How  ?" 

"  By  restoring  the  lost  one  to  her  parents." 

"  Who  can  do  that  ?  No  human  being  knows  what 
has  become  of  the  child.  Your  father  has  assured  me 


so. 

"  Miss  Lettie,  I  know  that  I  have  made  a  bold  venture,  to 
come  as  I  have,  to  tell  you  all  about  this  matter.  But 
the  truth  must  out  —  at  least  to  you.  I  know  you  intrusted 
the  child  to  my  father,  and  he  was  to  give  it  to  a  woman  who 
had  been  hired  to  meet  him  at  the  cross-roads.  But  when  I 
come  to  think  it  all  over,  my  heart  misgave  me.  I  had  felt 
the  warm  breath  of  the  dear  little  thing  that  nestled  in  my 
bosom  and  cried  itself  to  sleep  there.  Oh!  I  could  not!  -I 
could  not,  if  I  had  died  for  it,  have  seen  it  carried  off  and 
thrown  away  to  die  or  suffer  !  No,  I  could  not  !  So  I  gave 
the  gold  which  was  put  into  my  hands  to  my  father,  and  told 
him  to  take  it  and  let  me  have  the  child.  And  I  did  take  it 
—  and  have  never  lost  sight  of  it  to  this  day." 

"  And  do  you  dare  to  come  to  me,  Jane,  with  such  a  false 
hood  on  your  lips  ?  Why  have  you  never  mentioned  this 
before  ?" 

"  I  am  telling  you  no  falsehood,  Miss  Lettie.  And  the  rea 
son  why  you  have  never  heard  this  story  before  is,  that  I  have 
never  been  allowed  to  see  you  from  the  day  I  left  your  house. 
Twice  have  I  applied  to  my  father  for  permission  to  see  you, 
and  that  he  would  help  me  in  some  way  to  get  rid  of  my 
oath  ;  and  the  last  time  he  was  so  enraged  that,  for  fear  of 
my  life,  I  fled  away  from  the  lodge  in  the  night,  and  have 
never  seen  him  since.  But,  oh  !  Miss  Lettie,  what  good  can 
it  do  any  longer  to  keep  the  poor  sufferer  away  from  its  pa 
rents  ?  I  will  take  all  the  blame  to  myself.'' 

"  And  who  else  but  yourself  and  your  father  are  to  blame  ? 
Who  else  has  had  anything  to  do  with  it  ?" 

The  woman  fixed  a  keen  and  piercing  gaze  upon  the  lady. 
Her  cheeks,  which  had  been  flushed  with  the  excitement 
under  which  her  spirit  labored,  became  deadly  pale.  She 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         145 

seemed  petrified  with  horror  at  the  bold  disavowal  which  had 
just  been  made. 

"  And,"  continued  Miss  Lettie,  "  was  it  for  this  you  begged 
me  so  piteously  in  your  letter  to  meet  you  here  ?  And  after 
my  condescension  in  thus  yielding  to  a  request  of  one  who 
once  served  my  aunt,  am  I  to  listen  to  your  malicious  insinu 
ations  ?  Do  you  know  that  I  can  have  you  seized  and  placed 
in  the  hands  of  justice  ?" 

"  I  have  no  idea,  madam,  of  trying  to  alarm  you,  or  any 
one ;  nor  am  I  to  be  alarmed  by  any  threats  which  may  be 
made  to  me.  I  have  been  through  too  many  scenes  of  hard 
ship  and  suffering  to  have  any  fears  about  myself.  I  once 
did  a  great  wrong ;  but  ever  since  my  life  has  been  one  long, 
long  repentance.  I  could  not  undo  what  I  had  done  without 
breaking  a  fearful  oath  !  Yet  I  have  watched  over  the  help 
less  one ;  wherever  she  has  gone  I  have  gone ;  sometimes  in 
the  same  house,  sometimes  at  neighbors,  sometimes  alone  by 
myself.  But  never  have  I  lost  sight  of  her ;  nor  will  I  ever, 
until  God  brings  the  day  of  my  relief." 

A  sudden  interruption  here  occurred  by  the  entrance  of  a 
third  person.  Robin  was  naturally  of  an  inquisitive  turn. 
It  was  altogether  such  a  mysterious  affair,  that  he  should  be 
taken  from  his  post,  which  he  was  never  allowed  to  leave, 
especially  when  the  gate  was  unlocked  ;  and  then  that  he 
should  be  stationed  outside  the  house  to  act  as  a  sort  of 
guard,  and  yet  not  near  enough  to  hear  what  was  going  on 
within — that  his  curiosity  got  the  better  of  his  prudence,  and 
he  had  gradually  drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  premises, 
until  he  could  plainly  hear  voices,  and  one  of  them  he 
thought  he  well  remembered. 

A  guilty  conscience  is  a  troublesome  companion ;  and 
Robin  began  to  have  some  fears  aroused  which  had  not 
troubled  him  for  some  time.  Nearer  and  nearer  he  ap 
proached,  until  his  suspicions  were  verified  by  what  he  heard. 
Trouble  was  brewing ;  and  unable  to  restrain  himself,  he 
entered  the  house,  noiselessly  ;  and,  to  his  utter  amazement, 
heard  charges  made  that  might  be  his  ruin.  Without  regard 
to  consequences  he  kept  advancing  step  by  step,  until  he 
stood  within  full  sight  of  one  of  the  parties. 

Turning  to  see  what  had  attracted  the  notice  of  the  wo- 
1 


146  TBUE  TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

man,  Miss  Lettie  put  on  that  terrible  expression  which  her 
features  could  assume  when  she  was  aroused  by  anger. 

"  What  business  have  you  here,  sir  ?" 

Kobin  was  not  noted  for  courage.  He  was  now  thoroughly 
frightened.  He  dared  not  say  why  he  had  come,  and  was 
too  much  confounded  by  what  he  had  heard,  and  by  the 
fierce  countenance  there  scowling  on  him,  to  invent  a  rea 
son  ;  but  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  daughter,  and 
seemed  about  bereft  of  reason. 

"  Are  you  leagued  with  your  daughter  here  in  trying  to 
bring  a  charge  against  me  for  a  crime  perpetrated  by  you 
and  her  alone  ?" 

"I— I— I!  madam!" 

"  Yes  you,  sir  !     Dare  you  make  this  charge  ?" 

"  I — I — I  haven't  made  any  charge,  against  anybody." 

"  Answer  me  to  the  point,  sir.     Had  I  any  hand  in  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no,  my  lady  !     I  never  said  so." 

"  Now  begone,  sir  !" 

Too  glad  to  be  let  off  thus,  Robin  lost  no  time  in  beating 
a  retreat ;  nor  would  he  pay  the  least  heed  to  the  outcry  of 
his  daughter,  "  that  he  would  come  back." 

Thus  triumphant  in  having  browbeaten  and  put  to  con 
fusion  one  whom  she  had  some  reason  to  fear,  she  turned 
with  the  same  fierce  countenance  towards  the  other.  But, 
to  her  surprise,  saw  that  a  great  change  had  taken  place  in 
the  whole  aspect  and  bearing  of  the  woman.  There  was  no 
sign  of  fear.  But  in  the  sparkling  eye  and  curling  lip  she 
saw  tokens  of  stern  defiance. 

The  lady  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  What  more  have  you  to  say  ?" 

"  I  have  that  to  say,  madam,  which  you  may  not  wish  to 
hear.  But  because  you  can  terrify  a  weak-minded  old  man 
to  the  denying  of  the  truth,  you  cannot  keep  off  the  terrible 
vengeance  of  God,  who  knows  all  about  this  whole  case. 
But  that  you  may  understand  how  matters  now  are,  I  must 
tell  you.  There  are  those  at  work  now  in  this  business  who 
will  not  rest  until  this  whole  thing  has  been  traced  out. 

"  That  child,  whom  you  would  have  consigned  to  death  or 
infamy,  has  been  taken  care  of.  Site  is  now  a  lovely  maiden ; 
she  is  beautiful ;  she  is  rich ;  she  has  powerful  friends ;  and 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  147 

it  will  not  be  long — mark  my  words — before  that  weak  old 
man  will  be  brought  before  those  who  will  know  how  to  get 
the  truth  out  of  him.  Hints  have  long  been  about  that  he 
has  done  something  that  was  not  right;  and  when  he  is 
forced  to  tell  what  he  knows  " 

Had  not  the  woman  sprang  at  that  instant  and  caught 
Miss  Lettie,  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor.  Quickly 
seating  her  on  a  rude  bench,  she  used  all  the  means  in  her 
power  to  restore  animation ;  at  the  same  time  speaking  in  a 
soothing  tone,  encouraging  her  not  to  be  downcast,  as  things 
might  be  set  right  yet. 

It  was  some  time,  however,  before  she  recovered  so  as  to 
maintain  an  upright  position  without  help ;  and  when  she 
did,  there  was  a  total  change  in  her  manner,  and  in  a  tone  of 
voice  very  different  from  that  she  had  previously  used,  she 
said — 

"  Jane,  I  wish  you  to  accompany  me  home.  I  must  see  you 
further  about  this  business.  I  cannot  say  all  I  wish  to,  now." 

"  I  fear  the  consequences,  Miss  Lettie,  should  my  father 
suppose  I  had  beeu-  taken  into  your  favor.  He  is  a  desperate 
man  when  he  is  angry  or  alarmed." 

"  His  anger  would  be  of  little  consequence.  I  shall  see  to 
that." 

Very  unwilling  to  comply  with  the  request,  and  yet,  from 
the  manner  in  which  it  was  made,  hopeful  that  it  might  re 
sult  in  accomplishing  her  great  object,  she  at  length  assented. 

As  Robin  saw  the  "  young  mistress"  approach  with  his 
daughter  following  in  the  rear,  he  was  sorely  confounded. 
Things  bore  a  very  threatening  aspect,  and  what  might  be 
the  end  of  it  he  dared  not  think.  With  a  move  of  her  hand 
the  lady  motioned  him  to  proceed  to  the  carriage,  into 
which,  to  his  greater  astonishment,  he  saw  his  daughter  enter 
with  the  "  mistress."  Closing  the  door,  he  took  his  seat  be 
side  Jupiter,  not  heeding  in  the  least  the  curious  contortions 
which  the  latter  caused  his  features  to  undergo.  Robin  was 
too  bu?y  to  be  amused  by  trifles. 

As  the  carriage  reached  the  gate  and  drove  through  with 
its  inmates  up  the  avenue,  Robin  bolted  it  as  usual,  and  then 
repaired  to  his  lodge  and  sat  down  to  meditate  on  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard. 

Robin  was  one  of  that  class  of  persons  who,  although  pos- 


14:8  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

sessed  of  but  a  small  portion  of  this  world's  goods,  do  so  love 
that  little,  as  to  close  their  hearts  against  all  other  influences. 
The  small  share  they  have  clutched  not  only  blinds  them  to 
consequences,  but  makes  them  insensible  to  natural  feeling. 

We  believe  such  to  be  exceptional  cases,  not  only  amid  the 
mass  of  humanity,  but  among  those  who  may  be  called  "  bad 
men,"  yet  such  there  are,  and  they  are  permitted  at  times 
to  show  out  the  depravity  of  the  human  heart  by  the  com 
mission  of  heinous  crimes  for  a  paltry  motive.  Many  a  mur 
der  has  been  committed  for  as  small  a  sum  as  that  for  which 
Judas  betrayed  his  Master. 

That  Robin  had  been  an  unscrupulous  man  was  too  true. 
He  had  an  insatiable  love  of  gain.  He  had  accumulated 
some  hundreds ;  how  much  was  only  guessed  at.  It  could  not 
have  been  a  large  sum.  Over  a  thousand  dollars  had  been 
counted  up  years  ago  by  some  who  knew,  or  pretended  to  do 
so.  But  whatever  amount  it  reached,  to  him  it  was  every 
thing.  In  its  accumulation  he  had  not  stood  at  trifles ;  and 
therefore  hard  stories  were  current  about  him  ;  and,  perhaps, 
suspicions  that  he  was  generally  disliked,  operated  to  produce 
in  him  distrust  and  dislike  of  others. 

Robin  well  knew  that  when  once  some  secrets  of  his  life 
should  be  exposed,  a  hue  and  cry  would  be  raised  in  his 
neighborhood  and  through  the  town,  and  he  would  be  hooted 
at  and  made  the  sport  and  byword  of  the  multitude.  And 
there  was  even  worse  to  fear  than  this — he  had  committed  an 
offence  against  the  law.  His  property  might  be  wrested  from 
him,  his  person  confined  among  felons,  his  life  made  a  curse 
' — to  him  a  living  death. 

Thoughts  connected  with  such  results  began  now  seriously 
to  agitate  him  ;  they  enlarged,  they  branched  out  into  differ 
ent  directions  ;  they  grew  hideous.  They  attached  themselves 
to  present  scenes,  and  persons — to  the  past  hour — to  Miss 
Lottie — to  his  daughter. 

Beside  himself  two  human  beings  were  possessed  of  know 
ledge  dangerous  to  his  peace.  The  "young  mistress"  had 
hitherto  treated  him  with  consideration.  He  had  felt  strong 
in  her  favor.  Now  he  had  lost  it.  He  knew  her  temper  ; 
he  feared  her  wrath. 

His  daughter,  too,  he  feared  ;  but  for  other  reasons.  One 
check  alone  had  prevented  her  from  revealing  the  tale,  even 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         149 

should  she  herself  suffer  by  the  revelation.  This  he  well 
knew  had  been  her  wish  for  years.  Hitherto  the  bond  which 
held  her  seemed  secure ;  an  impassable  barrier  kept  her  from 
all  intercourse  with  the  "young  mistress" — that  barrier,  in 
some  unaccountable  way,  had  been  broken  through.  They 
had  been  together ;  he  had  heard  their  conversation,  and 
knew  full  well  the  object  his  daughter  had  in  view.  He  saw 
how  excited  his  mistress  had  been.  He  remembered  the 
acknowledgment  he  had  been  obliged  to  make. 

What  argument  had  been  used  by  his  daughter  to  effect 
so  suddenly  such  a  mighty  change.  Was  he  to  be  made  the 
criminal,  and  all  the  curse  to  rest  on  him ! 

Fear  is  sometimes  as  dangerous  a  passion  as  can  possess 
the  human  breast ;  and  Robin  was  now  fully  under  its 
power.  He  was  afraid  of  exposure  to  the  world ;  he  was 
afraid  his  treasures  would  be  wrested  from  him  ;  he  was  afraid 
his  crime  would  be  punished  by  perhaps  imprisonment  for  the 
rest  of  his  days. 

Terrible  suggestions  began  to  present  themselves  to  his 
mind.  They  may  have  come  from  the  Evil  One,  but  he 
cherished  them.  They  grew  more  and  more  powerful  in  their 
awful  persuasions. 

He  was  alone ! — No  human  voice,  no  human  form  was  at 
hand,  that,  by  the  influence  of  human  sympathy,  might  have 
acted  as  a  foil  to  the  thoughts  of  evil. 

He  laid  plans ;  he  thought  them  all  out  to  every  minutia  of 
accomplishment. 

The  dark  night  has  settled  down,  and  the  hours  are  draw 
ing  towards  twelve ;  what  he  has  determined  to  do  must  be 
done  soon. 

He  has  left  his  lodge,  and  proceeds  with  a  quick  step  towards 
the  mansion  ;  and  now  he  stands  by  its  side,  beneath  the  long 
branches  of  the  willow,  and  his  ear  is  listening  for  the  sound 
of  voices  or  of  human  footsteps.  All  is  still — no ;  he  thinks 
a  footfall  comes  from  a  little  distance,  and  a  human  form,  he 
thinks,  has  just  passed  the  hedge  ;  it  may  be  but  the  rustling 
of  a  night  bird — he  cannot  say — he  can  neither  hear  nor  see 
it  move. 

He  is  crouching  at  the  cellar  window,  and  his  hand  has 
reached  the  spring  which  secures  it ;  his  form  has  vanished 
into  the  dark  recess  beneath  the  dwelling,  and  no  human  eye 
has  seen  him  enter. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LOUISE  had  recovered  from  the  effects  of  her  injury,  but 
from  some  cause  unknown  to  the  family  her  whole  conduct 
was  changed. 

She  kept  much  by  herself,  and  with  great  reluctance  came 
into  the  family  circle  whenever  visitors  happened  to  be  at  the 
house.  Her  proud  heart  could  not  forget  the  insult  and 
injury  she  had  received  from  her  guardian  ;  and  although  she 
never  mentioned  the  matter,  and  allowed  the  version  which  the 
gentleman  had  given  of  the  affair  to  pass  uncontradictecl,  yet 
her  opinion  of  him  and  her  feelings  towards  him,  had  received 
a  bias,  which,  with  one  of  her  temperament,  could  not  easily 
be  changed. 

To  Mrs.  Thompson  and  the  daughters  she  was  respectful 
and  kind,  yet  they  noticed  the  change,  and  were  troubled  to 
account  for  it.  But  the  peculiar  conduct  of  Louise  must  not 
be  attributed  wholly  to  the  cause  above  mentioned.  Every 
month  which  she  advanced  in  age  increased  her  sensitiveness 
on  the  subject  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  heart.  Of  what  avail 
was  it  that  she  had  a  home  with  those  who  stood  respectably 
with  the  world  ?  It  only  introduced  her  to  circles  where  the 
uncertainty  of  her  birth  was  most  likely  to  operate  against 
her.  Of  what  avail  was  her  wealth  ?  It  was  a  mere  accident, 
that  might  procure  for  her  certain  attentions,  but  these  would 
be  accorded  rather  from  some  interested  motives  than  for  any 
respect  to  her  personally. 

Thus  she  felt  and  reasoned.  She  may  have  been  wrong, 
but  to  her  these  conclusions  were  realities,  and  they  deeply 
affected  her.  She  felt  herself  an  isolated  being,  doomed  for 
life  to  bear  a  stigma,  which,  like  the  mark  of  Cain,  would 
exclude  her  from  those  tender  sympathies  which  her  heart 
was  so  capable  of  enjoying. 

The  departure  of  Henry,  too,  had  its  influence  to  sink  her 
spirits.  Circumstances  had  drawn  her  heart  towards  him 
very  strongly.  We  will  not  call  the  deep  interest  she  felt  for 

160 


TRUE  TO   THE   LAST.  151 

him  by  its  common  name — for  she  was  yet  too  young  to  know 
the  full  power  of  that  holy  passion — but  it  was  very  nearly 
allied  to  it.  She  thought  of  him  "in  his  lonely  struggle  with 
the  world  ;  she  knew  how  sensitive  was  his  spirit ;  how  keenly 
alive  to  every  emotion  of  pain  or  pleasure ;  how  reluctant  to 
put  himself  forward  and  maintain  his  just  pretensions;  and 
how  ready  to  believe  in  the  sincerity  of  every  heart  that  ex 
hibited  any  show  of  friendship.  Her  last  interview  with  him 
had  tended  also  greatly  to  increase  her  respect  for  his  char 
acter.  His  independent  spirit,  scorning  to  receive,  even  from 
friendship  such  as  she  had  manifested,  pecuniary  aid — choos 
ing  to  trust  his  own  energies,  and  to  enjoy  the  satisfaction  of 
rising  by  his  own  efforts — had  elevated  him  in  her  regard. 
He  was  more  to  her  now  than  he  bad  ever  been ;  and  every 
place  and  circumstance  associated  with  their  past  intercourse 
had  peculiar  charms  beyond  all  else  around  her. 

She  seldom  rode  now,  and  then  only  when  urged  to  do  so ; 
for  some  reason — she  did  not  say  what — she  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  desire  for  that  recreation.  She  would  visit  her  pony 
every  day  and  caress  him,  and  often  take  him  with  her  in  her 
rambles ;  she  loved  to  see  him  sporting  at  liberty  upon  the 
highway,  where  she  might  be  walking,  and  to  have  him  come 
up  to  her  when  she  called,  or  see  him  leap  the  low  stone 
fence  to  follow  her  into  the  fields. 

She  had  her  whims,  no  doubt,  and  many  thought  that  this 
was  one,  and  they  called  her  an  odd  girl ;  but  her  remem 
brance  of  the  fall  she  had,  and  all  the  trial  of  feeling  con 
nected  with  it,  was  associated  with  that  which  had  once 
given  her  pleasure,  and  spoiled  it  effectually  for  her. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  never  communicated  to  Louise  the  result 
of  his  interview  with  Caroline  Jeralman ;  nor  that  he  had  re 
ceived  a  letter  from  her  ;  nor  that  he  had  been  commissioned  to 
make  particular  inquiries  concerning  herself.  He  was  too 
wise  and  too  kind  hearted  to  do  or  say  anything  that  might 
excite  false  hopes  in  one  whom  he  knew  had  such  strong 
feelings,  and  was  so  keenly  alive  to  whatever  had  any  bearing 
upon  the  great  secret  of  her  parentage. 

He  had  not,  however,  been  inactive.  On  his  last  visit  to 
the  city  of  New  York,  he  had  called  upon  the  old  people 
who  had  taken  care  of  Louise  during  infancy,  and  the  earlier 
years  of  childhood,  and  they  had  freely  communicated  to 


152  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

him  all  they  knew.  But  they  could  give  no  clue  whatever, 
by  which  her  origin  could  be  traced. 

He  had  inquired  also,  particularly  as  to  what  they  knew  of 
Caroline  Jeralman ;  and  the  following  narrative  he  noted 
down  almost  in  the  language  of  the  old  lady  who  gave  it : 

"As  to  Caroline  Jeralman,  sir,  we  remember  her  very  well ; 
that  is,  I  think  I  heard  the  name  of  Jeralman  once  called  ; 
but  not  more  than  once  or  twice,  at  the  most,  I  am  sure — 
we  called  her  Caroline.  But  before  I  go  any  farther,  let  me 
say  one  thing  about  her  name.  I  have  many  times  thought 
that  the  name  she  had  here  was  not  her  real  name ;  and  so  I 
told  my  husband.  And  what  made  me  think  so  was,  while 
she  was  living  here  a  man  called  one  day,  when  sheivas  gone 
out  to  walk  with  the  baby,  and  asked  if  Jane  was  in?  I 
said  there  was  no  Jane  lived  here.  '  Does  not  Jane  Byfield 
live  here  ?'  said  he.  '  No  sir,'  said  I.  With  that  he  seemed 
much  frustrated,  and  said,  '  he  was  told  she  lived  here,  and 
that  he  had  come  many  miles  to  see  her.'  Well,  that  might 
have  been  a  mistake,  and  I  might  never  have  thought  of  the 
matter  again,  had  not  Caroline  manifested  such  strange  feel 
ings  when  I  asked  her  after  she  came  home,  '  whether  she 
knew  any  person  by  the  name  of  Byfield — Jane  Byfield  ?' 
She  colored  very  much,  and  I  saw  there  was  something  ailed  her, 
so  I  said  a  man  had  called,  who  said  he  had  come  from  the 
country  and  had  been  directed  here — that  Jane  Byfield  lived 
here.  Caroline  then  said  she  did  know  the  name.  I  said  no 
more  about  it;  but  I  have  since  thought  about  it  a  great 
deal.  Well,  now,  to  go  back  and  tell  you  all  I  know  about 
her :  you  see,  just  opposite  to  us  there  is  a  house  which 
stands  back  in  the  yard — but  it  is  in  plain  sight  from  our 
house — and  the  folks  there  kept  a  cow,  and  we  used  to  get 
our  milk  there  every  morning.  I  was  some  younger  then 
than  I  am  now,  so  I  used  to  take  my  pitcher,  the  first  thing 
just  at  the  break  of  day,  and  go  over.  Well,  that  morning  as 
I  opened  my  door  leading  into  the  front  area,  without  seeing, 
I  tripped  my  foot  right  against  a  basket,  and  I  looked  down 
and  knew  in  a  minute  what  it  was,  for  I  have  had  such  tricks 
played  on  me  before.  You  see  I  once  nursed  a  great  deal, 
and  I  suppose  people  thought  maybe  I  was  fond  of  children 
and  would  see  that  they  wasn't  abused.  But  my  plan  was 
always  to  send  them  right  off  to  the  poor-house — for  if  one 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         153 

wanted  to  take  a  child  to  bring  up,  they  would  like  to  know 
what  blood  run  in  its  veins — at  least  I  should  ;  for  there  is  a 
deal  of  difference.  But,  however,  I  took  up  the  little  thing 
and  went  back  into  the  house  and  called  the  folks,  and  there 
was  a  great  to  do.  And  the  captain,  he  was  clean  took  with 
it,  and  says  he,  '  Mrs.  Bell,  if  you  will  take  charge  of  it  I  will 
pay  you  well  for  your  trouble  and  hire  a  nurse  to  tend  it,  and 
you  shall  have  no  trouble  only  just  to  have  the  oversight. 
At  first  I  tried  to  persuade  him  off  from  the  notion ;  but 
Captain  Lovelace  was  a  very  set  man,  and  he  said  if  I  would 
not  take  it,  he  would  find  some  one  who  would.  So,  thinks 
I,  who  knows !  maybe  he  is  some  interested  in  it,  some  way. 
But  I  found  out  to  my  satisfaction  afterwards  that  he  wasn't. 
He  told  me  in  his  last  sickness,  when  he  knew  that  he  must 
die,  '  that  the  child  was  as  much  a  stranger  to  him  as  it  was 
to  me,  and  no  more  related  to  him  than  it  was  to  me  ;'  and 
I  believed  him.  You  must  know,  he  had  boarded  with  us 
many  years,  and  we  knew  him  well ;  he  was  never  married 
but  once,  and  that  was  when  he  was  very  young ;  but  he  lost 
her  soon  after,  and  his  heart  seemed  so  set  upon  her  that  he 
could  never  make  up  his  mind  to  marry  again.  Well,  now 
to  the  child — as  I  was  saying  about  the  milk — I  didn't  go 
over  myself  then,  but  sent  the  girl  that  lived  with  me,  and 
she  soon  came  back,  and  the  woman  that  lived  there  she 
came  too,  and  another  young  woman  with  her — all  came  to 
see  the  child,  and  the  young  woman  seemed  to  take  a  mighty 
fancy  to  it ;  and  when  I  asked  if  they  knew  any  one  I  could 
get  to  tend  it,  she  said  at  once  that  she  wanted  a  place,  and 
that  she  was  very  fond  of  children,  and  would  like  dearly  to 
come.  So  I  looked  sharp  at  her,  and  you  know  she  is  a  very 
good  looking  person ;  and  coming  in  so  with  the  woman 
whom  I  knew  to  be  a  right  sort  of  a  character,  thinking  she 
was  some  kin  of  hers,  I  just  right  off  made  a  bargain  with 
her,  and  here  she  lived  until  the  child  was  all  of  six  years 
old ;  and  then  I  thought  there  was  no  more  use  any  longer 
to  keep  a  nurse,  as  there  wasn't  much  she  could  do  for  me. 
So  I  let  her  go,  and  she  found  a  place  in  the  neighborhood. 
But  there  wasn't  a  day  that  Caroline  didn't  come  over  to  see 
the  child  ;  she  seemed  to  be  so  lost  without  it.  Well,  by 
and  by  the  captain  died,  and  her  guardian  sent  the  girl  off  to 
a  boarding-school,  and  then  after  that  I  sasv  no  more  of 

7* 


154:  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

Caroline ;  for  a  few  days  after  the  child  went  she  called  to  bid 
me  good  bye ;  she  said  she  was  going  into  the  country,  and 
I  have  never  seen  her  since,  and  it  must  be  now  all  of  five 
years." 

The  fall  of  the  year  was  now  far  advanced,  and  Mr.  Vernon 
had  spent  a  longer  period  in  the  country  than  he  was  ac 
customed  to ;  and  chiefly  on  account  of  the  interest  he  felt 
in  this  matter.  But  his  presence  was  necessary  at  home,  and 
he  made  preparations  to  return. 

On  calling  to  take  leave  of  the  family  of  Esquire  Thomp 
son,  and  especially  of  Louise,  Mrs.  Thompson  requested  the 
favor  of  a  private  interview  with  him  for  a  few  moments : 

"  I  feel  very  anxious,  Mr.  Vernon,  about  our  Louise.  Per 
haps  you  have  noticed  a  great  change,  not  only  in  her  general 
behavior,  but  also  in  her  looks ;  I  fear  she  is  not  well." 

"  I  have,  madam  ;  and  it  has  caused  me  some  uneasiness  ; 
for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  become  much  interested  in  the 
child.  I  fear  she  is  too  painfully  sensitive  in  regard  to  her 
situation.  If  any  means  could  be  devised  to  turn  her 
thoughts  from  the  channel  in  which  I  fear  they  are  running, 
it  might  be  well  to  adopt  them.  How  would  a  change  of 
place  and  scenes  answer,  do  you  think,  madam  ?" 

"I  think,  Mr.  Vernon,  it  would  be  of  great  service.  But 
we  have  all  been  thinking  how  it  could  be  brought  about. 
She  is  averse  to  mingling  in  society,  and  especially  to  being 
thrown  into  new  circles.  She  dreads  the  terrible  questions 
which  would  naturally  be  asked ;  and  you  know  many  per 
sons  allow  their  curiosity  to  get  the  better  of  their  judgment, 
and  even  if  they  are  aware  how  peculiarly  she  is  situated, 
make  such  inquiries,  or  express  their  feelings  in  reference  to 
it ;  which,  to  one  so  full  of  sensibility  as  dear  Louise,  is  abso 
lutely  tormenting." 

"  I  know  all  the  difficulties  of  the  case,  Mrs.  Thompson, 
and  that  you  judge  correctly.  She  needs  to  have  a  change, 
and  yet  not  such  a  one  as  would  expose  her  to  the  trials 
you  have  mentioned.  You  are  aware  that  she  has  commu 
nicated  with  me  as  to  some  of  these  annoyances,  and  I  have 
told  you  how  I  usually  treated  her  case,  and  what  advice  I 
have  given." 

"  We  know,  Mr.  Vernon,  that  Louise  has  the  utmost  con 
fidence  in  you  as  a  friend ;  and  we  rejoice  at  it.  I  believe, 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         155 

too,  she  esteems  you  more  highly  from  the  fact  that  you  tell 
her  plainly  what  are  her  faults.  She  has  a  noble  spirit, 
although  not  always  under  proper  subjection." 

"  How  would  it  meet  your  views  if  I  should  propose  to  her 
that  she  accompany  me  to  the  city — say  for  the  winter.  I  live 
somewhat  retired ;  my  sisters  see  very  little  company,  and  I 
am  confident  they  will  enter  heartilj  iato  our  views  in  regard 
to  Louise,  and  would  much  enjoy  the  society  of  a  young  per 
son  like  her.  There  are  many  opportunities  for  diversion  in 
the  city,  you  know,  which  may  be  enjoyed  without  mingling 
intimately  in  society." 

"  I  certainly  approve  the  measure  most  cordially,  and  I 
know  my  husband  will  also — if  it  can  only  be  accomplished 
by  gaining  her  consent." 

"  Will  you,  then,  authorize  me  to  propose  the  measure  to 
her  ?" 

"  By  all  means,  Mr.  Vernon  ;  and  we  will  do  anything  to 
second  your  invitation." 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  agreeable  to  Louise  than 
the  proposal  which  Mr.  Vernon  made  to  her,  very  soon  after 
the  above-mentioned  interview  with  Mrs.  Thompson.  And 
when  he  told  her  that  her  guardians  fully  approved  the  mea 
sure,  there  was  a  lighting  up  of  her  beautiful  features,  such 
as  Mr.  Vernon  never  before  noticed.  He  had  not  become 
acquainted  with  Louise  until  the  shadow  which  involved  her, 
had  thrown  its  chill  upon  her  heart. 

Aside  from  the  desire  to  get  away  from  the  present  scenes 
surrounding  her,  it  seemed  to  her  a  happy  circumstance  to 
be  under  the  sole  care  and  guidance  of  one  so  wise  and  good 
as  Mr.  Vernon — in  whose  affectionate  interest  she  had  perfect 
confidence,  and  to  whom  she  could  tell  all  her  feelings  with 
out  restraint. 

There  was  also  to  her,  now,  an  attraction  to  the  city  of 
New  York  which  she  had  to  no  other  place.  Henry  was  no 
doubt  there— under  what  circumstances  she  did  not  know. 
"  He  was  a  stranger  and  might  be  suffering  trials  to  which 
one  alone  and  friendless  would  be  peculiarly  exposed.  She 
might  meet  with  him — she  could  take  the  place  of  a  sister — 
she  could  introduce  him  to  a  powerful  friend  in  Mr.  Vernon, 
who  would  most  cerfainly  take  great  delight,  in  giving  such 
aid  as  might  be  necessary  to  one  so  deserving  as  Henry.'' 


156  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J    OR, 

These  and  many  more  like  thoughts  at  once  took  posses 
sion  of  her  mind  ;  her  heart  grew  lighter  ;  she  forgot  herself — 
she  made  no  calculations  as  to  the  possibility  of  change  id 
Henry.  Her  faith  in  him  was  as  perfect  as  it  could  have 
been  had  he  passed  the  dangers  of  youth,  and  by  years  of 
steady  progress  in  the  path  of  virtue,  proved  the  integrity  of 
his  heart.  She  would  as  soon  have  doubted  whether  Mr. 
Vernon  might  not  prove  false  or  unworthy,  as  the  youth  who 
had  always  presented  to  her  such  a  pure  and  lovely  aspect. 
Blessed  confidence  of  early  years  !  how  strong !  how  free 
from  doubt  I  Alas  !  that  it  should  so  often  be  destroyed  by 
the  experience  of  riper  years  ! 

A  few  days  were  sufficient  to  make  all  the  preparations 
necessary  for  the  departure  of  Louise,  but  even  in  that  short 
period  a  great  change  was  manifest  in  her  appearance  and 
demeanor.  Her  bright  eye  had  assumed  its  former  lustre, 
and  the  roses  again  adorned  her  cheek,  and  her  step  once 
more  was  elastic,  quickened  by  the  power  of  those  bright 
visions  which  the  eye  of  youth  so  clearly  sees,  but  which 
for  some  months  had  ceased  to  beguile  the  heart  of  Louise. 

Mr.  Vernon  travelled  in  his  own  carriage,  driven  by  a  ser 
vant  who  attended  him  on  his  excursions  to  the  country. 
His  most  direct  route  would  have  been  the  regular  stage 
road,  but  as  that  passed  the  mansion  of  his  friends  the 
Marstons,  and  as  for  peculiar  reasons  he  preferred  not  just 
then  to  make  them  a  visit,  he  therefore  made  a  circuit  of 
some  miles  rather  than  risk  any  unpleasant  feelings  by  pass 
ing  their  house  without  a  call. 

It  was  on  the  second  day  of  his  journey,  and  near  the 
middle  of  the  day,  when  his  carriage  halted  at  a  tavern  not 
far  from  the  town  of  Rye  ,  and  while  his  servant  was  em 
ployed  in  watering  the  horses,  Mr.  Vernon  stepped  into  the 
house  to  say  a  word  to  the  landlord,  whom  he  well  knew. 

"  Well,  my  old  friend,  Hunter !  you  keep  stirring  yet  I  see 
— all  well  ?"  At  the  same  time  giving  his  hand  to  an  old 
portly  man  who  had  just  risen  from  his  seat  in  the  bar-room 
to  greet  his  visitor. 

"  All  well,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Vernon — all  well  ;  though  I 
must  say  I  don't  feel  quite  so  nimble  as  formerly — glad  to  be 
able  to  be  about,  though." 

"  No  news  I  suppose  this  way,  Mr.  Hunter  ?     Not  much 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         157 

stirring.  You  seem  to  be  all  very  quiet  along  the  road 
here.  It  is  a  number  of  years  since  I  have  noticed  any  alter 
ations." 

"  Well,  sir,  we  don't  change  much — jog  along  after  the  old 
sort ;  but  there  has  been  a  sad  affair  happened  lately ;  you 
must  have  heard  of  it  ?" 

"  What  affair,  Mr.  Hunter  ?" 

"  Haven't  you  heard  that  the  Tyrrel  place  is  all  burnt 
down  f 

"  The  Tyrrel  place  burnt  down  ?" 

"  It  is  sartain  true,  sir — gone  to  ashes  ?" 

"  No  one  injured,  I  hope  ?" 

"  Well,  it  is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been,  for  the 
servants  got  the  old  lady  out ;  she  wasn't  burnt,  but  the 
fright,  and  one  thing  and  another  had  such  a  hold  upon  her, 
that  she  died  the  next  day.  The  servants  were  pretty  nimble 
or  they  would  have  all  gone  for  it ;  but  the  '  young  mistress,' 
as  they  call  her — Miss  Lettie  Harbrook,  you  know  her  well, 
or  you  used  to,  has  been  pretty  badly  hurt  though.  You 
see  she  jumped  from  a  window,  and  one  of  her  limbs  was 
broke,  and  they  think  she  is  hurt  inardly,  some  way. 
They  have  got  her  into  the  old  lodge  by  the  gate,  for  the 
house  was  all  burnt  to  ashes — nothing  but  the  chimneys 
standing." 

"  That  is  sad  indeed,  Mr.  Hunter  !  sad  news  indeed  !  Why, 
I  thought  of  calling,  just  to  pay  my  respects  to  them.  And 
the  old  lady  is  dead  !  and  Miss  Lettie ;  she  is  not  dangerously 
hurt,  I  hope  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  as  to  that,  but  the  doctor  stopped  along  here 
this  morning,  and  he  said  he  was  most  afraid  it  was  going  to 
be  a  very  ugly  job,  that  he  should  be  surprised  if  it  wasn't  the 
finishing  of  her." 

"  How  did  the  fire  happen,  Mr.  Hunter  ?" 

"  Well,  there  is  no  telling  just  how  it  did  happen ;  some 
think  it  was  set  afire  ;  but  I  don't  know." 

"  Set  on  fire !    By  whom  ?" 

"  Well,  you  know,  they  have  been  queer  folk  ;  they  have 
ruled  with  a  pretty  high  hand  there — that  is,  of  late  years. 

Miss  Harbrook  has,  you  know,  had  all  to  say  about  things, 
and  she  has  been  hard  upon  the  servants  sometimes,  and  is  a 
very  unreasonable  person  when  she  gets  her  temper  up — so 


158  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

they  say — and  then  there  has  been  always  some  queer  stories 
about  her  and  old  Robin  Byfield.  It  has  been  said  that 
Robin,  years  ago,  had  done  something  or  another  of  some  kind 
of  deviltry  for  her,  and  that  his  pockets  were  pretty  well  lined 
for  the  job.  What  it  was  nobody  seems  to  know,  or  don't 
like  to  say.  But  Robin  had  more  money  than  folks  thought 
he  could  have  come  by  honestly,  and  I  guess  sometimes  they 
twitted  him  of  it. 

"  Well,  it  seems  old  Jupiter  says,  there  has  been  a  great 
turn  up  of  late  between  Robin  and  the  young  mistress.  She 
ordered  him  round,  and  had  even  threatened  him  with  being 
turned  off.  But,  howsomever,  Robin  is  gone ;  he  ain't  no 
where  to  be  found,  and  he  has  left  everything  they  say — all 
his  money  and  everything — clothes  and  all — and  gone  they 
say,  the  devil  only  knows  exactly  where ;  and  some  believe 
he  meant  to  scorch  the  whole  on  'em.  But  it  is  an  unlikely 
thing  to  my  mind,  that  he  should  have  done  so,  old  sinner  as 
he  is !  He  loved  his  money  too  much  to  go  off  and  leave 
that ;  there  is  some  mystery  about  the  business  I  can't  un 
ravel." 

"  Does  Captain  Marston  know  of  this  ?  Mrs.  Marston  is 
half-sister  to  Miss  Lettie." 

"  I  know  that ;  the  captain  and  his  wife  were  here  only 
three  days  ago.  Word  was  sent  to  them,  you  see,  and  they 
came  right  on,  but  deuce  a  bit  would  she  see  them.  She 
sent  them  word  that  they  need  not  trouble  themselves  about 
her;  she  could  live  or  die  without  them,  and  she  wouldn't 
see  them  no  how.  So  they  just  saw  to  the  funeral  of  the 
old  lady,  and  did  what  they  could  to  see  that  Miss  Lettie  was 
taken  care  of,  and  then  when  they  found  there  was  no  use  in 
staying  here,  they  went  on  their  way  home.  She's  a  hard 
case  I  tell  you — a  hard  case."  And  Mr.  Hunter,  putting  both 
hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair,  resumed  his  seat. 

A  multitude  of  thoughts  crowded  within  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Vernon  while  listening  to  the  story  of  the  old  landlord. 
Thoughts  which  no  one  who  was  not  in  possession  of  some 
items  of  inteliigence  which  had  been  gathered  from  various 
sources,  could  have  indulged ;  not  one  of  them,  however, 
dare  he  breathe  to  any  human  ear.  One  resolve,  he  at 
once  determined  to  put  into  execution,  and  that  was,  if  pos 
sible,  to  have  an  interview  with  Miss  Lettie. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         159 

He  had  always  been  on  fair  terms  with  her,  and  it  had 
been  whispered  among  those  who  knew  somewhat  how  mat 
ters  stood  with  that  lady,  that  she  had  been  so  favorably  dis 
posed  towards  James  Vernon,  that  had  he  offered  himself,  he 
would  not  have  met  a  refusal.  He  never  had  offered  himself,  for 
reasons,  no  doubt,  all  sufficient  to  his  own  mind  ;  but  he  had 
ever  been  treated  by  her  with  marked  respect  and  atten 
tion. 

He  believed  she  would  not  refuse  to  see  him  now ;  at  least, 
as  an  old  friend,  he  could  not  do  otherwise  than  make  the 
attempt ;  besides,  there  were  other  reasons  which  urged  him 
to  it 

The  place  where  she  lay  was  distant  but  two  miles  from 
the  tavern,  and  in  a  few  minutes  after  receiving  this  account 
of  matters  from  Mr.  Hunter,  the  carriage  was  rolling  along  on 
the  picturesque  road  that  opens  to  the  traveller,  after  leaving 
Rye,  on  the  way  to  New  Rochelle. 

Soon  the  ruins  of  the  old  Tyrrel  place  were  visible, 
and  Mr.  Vernon  pointed  to  Louise  the  scene  of  the  fire.  The 
blackened  chimneys  could  be  seen  at  intervals  through  the 
trees,  with  the  large  willows  standing  on  each  side,  and  their 
drooping  tendrils  hanging  as  in  silent  sorrow  over  the  sad 
catastrophe. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  beautiful  place,"  said  Louise  ;  "  what 
a  pity  !  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

Louise  had  not  heard  the  conversation  between  Mr.  Ver 
non  and  the  tavern-keeper,  for  she  chose  to  remain  in  the 
carriage. 

"  It  was,  indeed,  a  pretty  place ;  its  situation  was  com 
manding.  The  house  was  finely  built,  and  everything  in  ex 
cellent  condition,  and  there  was  wealth  enough  to  keep  it  so ; 
but  I  fear  there  was  little  or  no  happiness  enjoyed  by  its  pos 
sessors.  Happiness  does  not  always  accompany  wealth— do 
you  think  it  does  ?" 

Louise  turned  her  bright  eye  full  upon  Mr.  Vernon. 

"  It  only  aggravates  the  misery  of  our  condition  ;  that  is,  un 
der  certain  circumstances." 

"There  were  no  circumstances  in  this  case,  however,  be 
side  a  corruption  of  the  heart.  They  made  their  own  unhap- 
piness  ;  ungoverned  wills,  impetuous  tempers,  and  a  morbid 
idea  of  their  own  importance,  not  only  destroyed  their  peace, 


160  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

but,  I  fear,  have  been  the  cause  of  much  distress  to  others. 
We  shall  stop  here  for  a  short  time  ;  one  of  those  whom  I 
have  had  reference  to,  lies  at  that  small  house  you  see  near 
the  gate  ;  she  is  dangerously  ill ;  I  wish  to  see  her  if  possible. 
You  can  remain  in  the  carnage,  if  you  please,  or  get  out  and 
stroll  a  little  about  the  grounds.  You  can  stop  at  that  gate, 
Stephen."  This  last  order  was  addressed  to  his  servant. 

A.S  the  carriage  drove  up  to  the  gate,  an  aged  black  came 
out  from  the  lodge,  and  stood  ready  to  open  if  neceesary,  and 
Mr.  Vernon  at  once  recognized  him. 

"  Well,  Jupiter  ;  you  alive  yet,  eh !" 

"Massa  Vernon!  can  a  be!  sure  nuff;"  and  in  a  moment 
the  gate  was  thrown  open. 

"  How  is  the  '  young  mistress,'  Jupiter  ?  Sad  doings 
here  I  learn." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  stepped  up  towards  Mr. 
Vernon,  who  was  assisting  Louise  to  alight,  and  answered  in 
a  very  low  tone : 

"  Sad  doin's — sad  doin's,  Massa  Vernon  !  The  old  missus 
is  dead  and  buried.  She  clean  killed  up  wid  de  fright,  and 
went  off  jist  like  a  pop  corn  ;  and  de  young  missus  is  goin',  I 
guess,  to  de  long  home.  She's  dreadfully  hurted,  somewhere 
or  nudder — de  leg  is  all  broke  to  pieces,  Massa  Vernon,  and 
de  doctor  say  she  hurt  inside  somewhere — no  tellin'  where — 
but  she  look  bad  ;  de  cheek  is  all  sunk  in,  and  de  eyes  is 
very  big,  and  starin',  Massa  Vernon,  and  she  speak  softly,  and 
she  groan  very  much — she  very  sick  woman,  no  mistake, 
Massa  Vernon." 

"  Who  is  with  her,  Jupiter  ?" 

"  Well,  der  ain't  no  one  now  but  my  old  Bess  and  me. 
You  see,  Massa  Vernon,  de  oder  servants  hab  all  run  off  and 
cleared  de  coast  entirely.  So  soon  as  de  old  missus  was 
buried,  dey  didn't  feel  no  'tachraent,  you  know,  to  de  young 
missus.  I  can't  tell  you  all  'bout  de  business,  Massa  Vernon. 
,  'Tis  pretty  long  story ;  but  so  it  is.  Old  Bess  and  me,  we 
stick  to  de  last." 

"  Where  is  Robin,  Jupiter  ?" 

"  Oh,  Massa  Vernon,  dat  am  de  queerest  of  de  whole  ting. 
Robin  ain't  nowhere  to  be  found.  He  leave  his  house,  and 
his  clothes,  and  his  money,  and  all  tings  what  he  got,  and  he 
vanished  away  like  de  fog.  Robin  very  strange  man — he  no 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         161 

good  man,  neider ;  but  me  never  tink  he  run  away  and  leave 
ebery  ting  what  he  got  behind  him — remarkable  strange  ting 
dat,  Massa  Vernon,  I  'sure  you." 

"  I  should  like  your  mistress  to  know  that  I  am  here,  Jupi 
ter,  and  would  be  glad  to  see  her,  if  agreeable  to  her 
self." 

"  Me  speak  to  Mam  Bess  right  away."  And  Jupiter  again 
entered  the  dwelling.  In  a  few  moments  he  came  out  and 
beckoned  Mr.  Vernon  to  come  in. 

There  were  two  rooms  on  the  ground  floor  opening  into 
each  other.  In  the  back  one  lay  the  sick  lady ;  her  bed  in 
front  of  the  passage  between  the  rooms — no  doubt  for  the 
benefit  of  air. 

A  great  change  had  indeed  taken  place  in  the  sufferer. 
She  had  been  in  her  youth,  if  not  handsome,  yet  what  might 
have  been  called  a  showy  person.  Of  fair  skin,  with  consid 
erable  color  when  excited  by  conversation,  a  remarkably  fine 
head  of  hair,  bright  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  could  smile  most 
agreeably  when  she  was  really  pleased  ;  but  when  her  fea 
tures  were  at  rest,  a  close  observer  might  easily  have  imag 
ined,  from  certain  distinctive  lines,  not  noticed  when  lighted 
up  from  any  agreeable  cause,  that  the  expression  of  anger 
and  even  furious  passion  might  be  strikingly  displayed,  and 
under  such  circumstances  that  few  persons  would  care  to  look 
upon  it.  These  marks  were  now  more  clear  than  ever.  Her 
high  cheek-bones  throwing  their  shadows  on  the  hollow 
cheeks,  the  deep  marks  upon  the  brow,  the  wild,  staring, 
bright  eye,  and  the  wide  mouth  with  deep  furrows  at  each 
side,  bore  unmistakable  evidence  of  malignant  passions.  They 
had  stamped  their  impress,  and  there  they  must  remain  until 
corruption  and  the  worm  had  done  their  work. 

Mr.  Vernon  almost  recoiled  as  he  entered  the  apartment, 
and  for  a  moment  his  thoughts  were  too  busy  to  allow  him 
to  speak. 

The  strange  contrast — from  health  to  a  deathbed  ;  from 
luxurious  surroundings  in  a  noble  mansion  to  a  rough  couch 
in  a  bare  and  mean  cottage.  He  was  not  indeed  surprised, 
but  only  filled  with  wonder  at  the  mysterious  workings  of 
that  Providence  which,  he  believed,  had  for  just  reasons 
brought  the  proud  low,  and  taken  the  crafty  in  their  own 
snare.  But  he  felt  that  judgment  belongeth  not  to  man.  It 


162  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST;   OR, 

was  not  an  hour  for  a  fellow  mortal  to  use  an  upbraiding 
word,  or  even  to  indulge  a  hard  thought. 

As  he  approached  the  bed,  a  hand  was  extended,  and  as  he 
took  it  the  face  was  covered.  He  felt  the  nervous  tremor 
that  was  agitating  the  sufferer.  Memory,  he  believed,  was  at 
work,  bringing  back  days  long  since  gone  by — days  of  com 
parative  happiness.  Or  perhaps  the  hour  of  trial  was  work 
ing  contrition  in  the  heart,  and  softening  it  into  love  and 
pity.  Perhaps  feelings  long  indurated  were  yielding  to  the 
touch  of  sorrow,  and  nature  at  the  last  asserting  her  rightful 
power.  Thus  he  fondly  hoped,  as  he  stood,  and  for  some 
moments  in  silence  held  the  hand  she  had  given  him. 

At  length  he  spoke. 

"  I  am  heartily  sorry  that  I  find  you  here,  Lettie,  and  un 
der  such  circumstances." 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  here  ;  sit  down  by  me.  They  tell  me 
I  must  die !" 

Mr.  Vernon  drew  a  chair  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  had 
just  taken  his  seat,  when  suddenly,  as  by  the  impulse  of 
some  new  and  violent  emotion,  she  threw  the  hand  which  had 
veiled  her  face,  with  apparent  passion,  upon  the  bed,  and  ex 
claimed  : 

"  Die — die — die !  I  do  not  believe  it.  Do  I  look  like 
dying  ?" 

"  You  are  much  changed  in  appearance,  Lettie.  You 
must  have  received  a  violent  shock  to  have  caused  so  great  an 
alteration  in  so  short  a  time." 

"  But  do  I  look  like  dying  ?  I  wish  to  know — to  know 
the  truth,  and  for  particular  reasons.  You  always  told  me 
the  truth.  Tell  me  now." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  ill,  Lettie,  and  it  would  not  sur 
prise  me,  from  what  I  hear  of  the  manner  and  extent  of  your 
injury,  if  it  terminated  fatally." 

"  That  is  not  what  I  want  to  know.  Do  you  say  that  I 
cannot  recover  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that;  nor,  from  what  I  hear,  does  the  phy 
sician  say  so.  I  have  only  heard  that  he  expressed  doubts  as 
to  the  probability  of  your  getting  up.  Your  life,  Lettie,  is  in 
the  hand  of  God.  If  your  peace  is  not  made  with  him,  or 
you  have  anything  to  settle  with  your  fellow-creatures  which 
should  be  done  while  in  life,  and  in  the  possession  of  your 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         163 

reason,  I  most  earnestly  advise  you  to  attend  to  it  without 
delay." 

"  If  I  only  knew  that  I  was  certainly  to  die  !" 

What  more  she  was  intending  to  say  was  suddenly  arrested 
by  a  heavy  groan  and  a  gasping  for  breath,  while  at  the 
same  instant  her  hands  were  thrown  wildly  up  and  then  fell 
heavily  upon  the  bed.  Mr.  Vernon  called  quickly  for  help, 
for  he  supposed  she  was  gasping  her  last. 

Old  Bess,  who  had  left  the  room  as  Mr.  Vernon  came  in, 
was  standing  outside  the  house,  talking  to  Louise,  and  telling 
her  all  about  the  scenes  which  had  transpired  at  the  burning 
of  the  house.  Hearing  Mr.  Vernon's  call,  the  old  woman 
hurried  in,  and  Louise  followed  her,  thinking  that  she  might 
possibly  render  some  aid. 

"  Oh,  dear,  she's  gone  off  again  !  She's  got  another  of 
them  there  spells  !  You  see,  sir,  they  come  over  her  every 
once  in  a  while ;  you'd  think  she  was  goin'  to  die  right  off; 
and  the  doctor  says  he  thinks  she  will  go  out  of  the  world  in 
one  of  them  yet.  Here,  do,  miss — you  rub  this  hand  and 
arm  as  hard  as  you  can ;  open  both  the  doors,  Mr.  Vernon, 
please  do." 

While  giving  these  directions,  the  old  woman  kept  one 
hand  engaged  in  fanning  and  the  other  in  rubbing,  both 
which  exercises,  she  being  very  fleshy,  and  the  weather  some 
what  warm,  caused  her  to  be  sadly  straitened  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  de  lors !  If  this  is  to  be  the  way,  me  can't  stan'  it 
much  longer.  Open  de  windows  too,  Massa  Vernon,  if  you 
please.  Here,  my  young  lady,  just  hand  me  de  camphire. 
Dare  !  she  twitch  a  leetle ;  she  come  to  by  and  by.  Oh, 
de  lors,  what  a  time  it  is !  Can't  stan'  it  long  so — must 
have  help.  But  you  see,  Massa  Vernon,  she  can't  no  how 
bear  de  neighbors  ;  no,  nobody  but  old  Bess  and  Jupe.  And 
Jupe  ain't  good  for  notin'  but  to  drive  de  horses ;  he  dread 
ful  feared  of  dying  folks." 

Louise  had  procured  the  camphor-bottle  and  returned  to 
the  bedside,  and  commenced  again  rubbing  the  hand  and 
arm.  She  knew  not  what  else  to  do.  Mr.  Vernon  stood  by 
her  side,  and  was  intently  looking  at  the  pale  sunken  features 
of  the  unhappy  woman.  He  felt  confident  that  nature  was 
giving  way,  and  that  death  had  already  set  his  mark  upon 
the  victim. 


164:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

Soon  there  was  a  slight  groan  and  one  or  two  long  breaths 
— and  again  the  bright  eyes,  now  darker  by  contrast  with 
the  pale  features,  were  opened — and  for  a  moment  they 
rested  upon  Mr.  Yernon,  and  then  glanced  at  the  others 
beside  him ;  in  an  instant  her  whole  frame  shook  as  under 
the  power  of  convulsions.  She  glared  wildly  at  Louise, 
and  clutched  Mr.  Vernon's  arm  with  both  her  hands — pulling 
him  down  to  her  : 

"  Who  is  it  ?  who  is  it  ?"  She  spoke  only  in  a  whisper, 
but  with  an  earnestness  that  alarmed  him.  At  once  he  mo 
tioned  to  Louise  that  she  should  leave  the  room. 

"  Tell  me  who  is  that ;  who  have  you  brought  here  ?  Send 
her  away — do  you  hear !" 

"  She  has  left  the  house,  Lettie.  Calm  yourself;  you  are 
very  weak ;  you  are  easily  excited.  She  merely  cam^  in  to 
render  assistance  to  you  ;  try  to  compose  yourself." 

"  But  tell  me,  James  Vernon,  who  she  is  ?  Oh  !  oh  !  oh  ! 
must  it  be  so !  Can  I  not  die  in  peace  ?  tell  me  who  that  is  ?" 

"  She  is  a  young  lady,  going  with  me  to  New  York.  I  did 
not  imagine  that  a  strange  face  would  thus  disturb  you." 

"  Strange  face  !  That  face  is  not  strange  to  me  ;  it  is  im 
printed  too  deeply  on  my  mind — too  deeply  !  Bess,  will  you 
go  out  ?  I  wish  to  speak  to  Mr.  Vernon." 

Old  Bess  lost  no  time  in  obeying  the  order ;  she  was  but 
too  glad  to  be  released  from  duty.  Mr.  Vernon  seated  him 
self  by  the  bedside,  saying  at  the  same  time  all  he  could  to 
calm  the  excited  sufferer. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  is,  James  Vernon  ?" 

"  I  have  told  you,  Lettie  ;  she  is  a  young  lady,  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  going  with  me  to  spend  the  winter  with  my 
sisters  in  the  city." 

"  Where  are  her  parents?" 

"  She  has  no  parents,  that  I  know  of." 

Large  drops  gathered  on  the  brow  of  Miss  Harbrook,  as 
she  heard  this  reply,  and  again  she  began  to  pant  for  breath. 

"  Oh,  if  I  knew  I  was  to  die !  Tell  me  honestly ;  what 
do  you  think?" 

"  I  think,  Lettie,  that  you  are  very  ill ;  much  more  so  than 
I  supposed  when  I  first  saw  you.  And  as  an  old  friend 
I  beseech  you  if  you  have  anything  to  do  or  say  that  should 
be  done  or  said  before  you  die,  lose  no  time." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         165 

"  But,  if  I  should  Jive  ?" 

"  Lettie,  I  have  ever  been  treated  by  you  with  confidence  ; 
can  you  yet  trust  my  word  ?" 

"  I  can."  ••:•  » 

"  I  will  say  to  you,  then,  make  what  communication  to  me 
you  think  proper ;  anything — anything  that  will  relieve  your 
mind.  If  you  are  taken  away,  I  shall  make  no  improper  use 
of  it;  and  if  you  recover,  I  will  divulge  nothing  concerning 
yourself,  without  liberty  from  you  to  do  so.  But  I  warn  you 
to  leave  nothing  unsaid  which  you  ought  to  reveal,  or  which 
you  would  wish  had  been  revealed  when  you  come  to  stand 
before  the  great  Judge  of  all  the  earth." 

"  I  believe  you  ;  I  think  I  shall  die ;  I  feel  that  my  strength 
is  hourly  leaving  me ;  strange  feelings  come  over  me  very 
often.  Oh,  I  have  much  to  do — I  know  that  I  have — why 
could  I  not  have  thought  of  these  things  before  ?  Oh  how 
strangely  different  I  feel !  A  few  days  since,  I  refused  to  see 
Caroline  and  her  husband.  My  wretched  passions!  I  shall 
never  see  them  now !  Why  have  you  not  hated  me  as  well 
as  the  rest  ?" 

"Perhaps,  Lettie,  you  have  misjudged  the  feelings  of 
others." 

"Perhaps  I  have — misjudged — perverted — mistaken  the 
whole  value  of  life." 

There  was  quite  a  pause  now,  for  her  strength  seemed  to 
be  failing,  and  the  words  she  had  already  spoken  were  uttered 
in  very  feeble  tones. 

Mr.  Vernon  was  deeply  agitated.  He  had,  for  many  years, 
indulged  suspicions  ;  and  now  he  believed  from  many  circum 
stances,  that  they  were  well  founded.  But  the  truth !  the 
truth  !  How  should  he  come  at  it  ?  Never,  he  feared,  if  she 
died  without  revealing  it.  It  would  not  do  for  him  to  appear 
too  urgent,  and  yet  there  was  danger  in  every  moment's 
delay. 

At  length  she  asked, 

"  Can  all  sins  be  forgiven  ?" 

"  They  can,  if  repented  of." 

"But  that  is  a  great  thing — to  repent!  I  know  full  well 
what  it  implies ;  a  sorrow  for  it ;  a  hatred  of  it ;  a  love  to 
all  that  is  the  opposite  of  evil ;  a  perfect  reparation,  where 
we  have  done  injury  to  others.  Oh,  it  is  too  late  to  do  all 


166  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

this!  Feelings  of  the  heart  cannot  be  changed  just  at  our 
will ;  but  evils  can  sometimes  be  repaired.  What  I  have 
done,  James,  is  beyond  remedy.  I  do  feel  sorrow  for  some 
things ;  I  wish  I  could  undo  them  by  merely  asking  forgive 
ness.  I  could  do  that  heartily  now ;  but  to  repair  the  evil  is 
beyond  my  power.  In  that  burning  house  one  human  being 
perished,  who  alone  could  have  revealed  the  mystery,  and, 
perhaps — yes,  I  have  no  doubt  she  could  have  replaced  a  lost 
treasure." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  Lettie?  I  have  been  told  that 
all  the  inmates  of  the  dwelling  escaped  without  injury,  ex 
cept  yourself." 

"  I  know  more  than  they  do.  She  was  there,  but  they 
knew  it  not ;  she  was  in  a  room  that  opened  from  mine ;  the 
door  was  locked  and  she  could  not  escape.  In  my  confusion 
to  save  myself,  I  forgot  to  unlock  the  door ;  and  after  I 
jumped  I  knew  nothing  until  the  next  day.  No ;  she  has 
perished.  I  am  guilty  of  that  death ;  but  not  designedly.  I 
locked  the  door  because  I  feared  her." 

"  Who  was  it,  Lettie  ?" 

"  You  never  knew  her ;  you  have  never  seen  her  here ;  she 
has  been  away  for  many  years.  Jane  Byfield  could  have 
repaired  the  evil.  No  human  being  can  do  it  now ;  and  I 
knew  not  that  she  could,  until  the  very  day  before.  But  tell 
me  more  about  that  young  girl  whom  I  saw  standing  here  ;  my 
mind  runs  on  her ;  her  image  is  painted  on  everything  about 
me.  What  does  it  mean  ?  Why  does  that  face  bring  back  the 
past?  Oh,  the  past!  Death  is  in  it;  hell  is  in  it!" 

Completely  exhausted  by  the  effort  of  speaking  and  in 
tense  agony  of  mind,  again  she  lay  with  her  eyes  closed  and 
her  breath  flying  back  and  forth  with  fearful  rapidity.  Mr. 
Vernon  arose  and  commenced  fanning  her. 

"  Not  too  hard,  James  ;  my  breath  " 

And  in  a  few  moments  she  again  spoke  : 

"  Sit  down,  James." 

And  resuming  his  seat,  he  began  to  say  such  things  as  he 
felt  ought  to  be  said  to  one  so  near  the  grave ;  occasionally 
she  replied  in  the  affirmative,  with  a  simple  "  yes."  At  length, 
after  recovering  her  strength  in  some  measure,  she  said : 

"  Yes ;  what  you  say  is  true — all  true ;  but  first,  you  know, 
what  in  me  lies  to  do,  I  must  do ;  and  I  must  do  that  before 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         167 

I  can  hope  that  any  prayer  I  may  offer  will  be  heard.  '  If 
thou  bringest  thy  gift  to  the  altar  and  then  rememberest 
that  thy  '  " she  paused.  "  That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  That  is  true,  Lettie ;  you  are  right." 

"  Close  the  door."     He  did  as  requested. 

"  Have  pity  upon  me  !  Do  not  spurn  me,  nor  leave  me  in 
disgust !  Try  not  to  hate  me  !  And  now  hear  what  I  have 
to  say." 

He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand  and  rested  it  as  near  to 
her  as  possible,  that  he  might  catch  every  word.  It  took 
some  time,  for  she  had  to  pause  occasionally  for  breath ;  but 
she  ceased  not  till  the  sad  story  was  fully  told. 

"And  now  I  wish  to  do  all  I  can.  Tell  them  I  most 
heartily  grieve  for  myself  and  for  them.  They  must  forgive 
me  for  their  own  sakes.  And  should  she  ever  be  found, 
whatever  property  I  leave  I  wish  should  go  to  her.  All  here 
is  mine  now.  I  have  made  no  will.  Go  at  once  to  my  law 
yer  ;  have  it  arranged ;  bring  him  to  me,  I  will  say  what  he 
is  to  do.  I  must  have  it  all  left  at  your  disposal ;  I  know 
you  will  do  what  is  right." 

As  Mr.  Vernon  saw  there  was  no  prospect  of  continuing  his 
journey  that  day,  he  drove  back  to  the  tavern  and  left  Louise 
there.  He  knew  the  family  to  be  respectable,  and  felt  no 
hesitation  in  placing  her  under  their  care  for  the  night. 

When  all  worldly  matters  had  been  arranged,  and  every 
thing  done  which  the  dying  one  could  do  to  repair  the  evil 
which  her  unhallowed  passions  had  brought  about,  Mr.  Ver 
non  again  took  his  seat  beside  her  bed,  and  did  what  he  could 
to  lead  her  thoughts  aright,  and  to  hold  out  to  her  the  con 
solations  of  the  gospel  to  the  truly  penitent.  How  well  the 
spirit  was  prepared  for  its  departure,  neither  he  nor  any  hu 
man  being  could  well  say.  In  the  agony  of  the  final  strug 
gle,  there  was  an  earnest  cry  for  mercy,  and  on  its  lone  way 
that  spirit  went,  through  a  dark,  dark  cloud. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MRS.  MARSTON,  as  we  have  seen,  had  invited  Henry  to  re 
main  at  her  house,  in  the  hope  that  his  influence  over  Evart 
might  counteract  that  of  the  gay  companions  with  whom  he 
was  surrounded. 

But  Henry  had  few  opportunities  of  seeing  Evart.  He  was 
seldom  out  of  bed  when  Henry  left  in  the  morning,  and  the 
latter  was  never  permitted  to  leave  the  store  before  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening ;  and  it  would  have  required  a  very 
strong  hold  of  the  affections  to  have  been  able,  under  such 
circumstances,  to  exercise  a  controlling  influence.  To  Henry, 
it  was  a  great  favor  to  have  such  a  home  free  from  cost ;  he 
felt  it  to  be  so,  and  would  gladly  have  done  anything  in  his 
power  as  a  return  for  such  kindness. 

How  well  he  pleased  his  employers  he  knew  not.  He  was 
kept  constantly  busy,  and  no  calculation  seemed  ever  to  be 
made  as  to  the  possibility  of  his  being  tired  or  having  done 
enough. 

He  was  generally  addressed  in  a  rough,  off-hand  manner, 
and  ordered  to  do  this  or  that.  No  one  asked  him  any  ques 
tions  as  to  his  personal  concerns ;  as  to  where  he  lived  or 
how  he  lived.  The  great  object  of  the  men  who  hired  him 
seemed  to  be — to  keep  him  busy. 

At  times,  indeed,  he  thought  some  consideration,  under  the 
circumstances,  might  have  been  exercised  ;  yet  he  never  mur 
mured,  nor  manifested  the  least  backwardness  to  go,  or  to  do, 
whatever  or  wherever  required. 

Two  partners  of  the  concern  were  generally  behind  the 
counter  during  the  day,  and  kept  a  keen  eye  on  those  under 
them.  Their  favorite  clerk,  or  the  one  they  treated  with 
most  consideration,  was  a  sprightly  young  man,  who  attempt 
ed  to  be  fashionably  dressed,  and  wore  his  hair  very  long,  the 
ringlets  having  the  appearance  of  paper  formations.  With  a 
pert  tongue,  always  eying  the  customers  as  they  entered,  and 
trying  to  accommodate  his  behavior  to  what  he  supposed  to 

168 


TRUE    TO   THE    LAST.  169 

s 

be  their  standing,  and   accommodating  his  prices  to  what  he 
believed  to  be  their  knowledge  of  the  value  of  goods. 

Henry  was  frequently  surprised  at  some  little  matters 
which  passed  under  his  observation  ;  they  did  not  seem  to  be 
right,  and  yet  were  done  with  the  cognizance  and  approval 
of  the  gentlemen  principals,  as  witnessed  in  sly  and  expres 
sive  glances  between  the  latter  and  their  agent. 

The  great  principle  which  Henry,  in  time,  found  to  be  the 
ruling  one  in  the  establishment  was,  that  the  salesmen  should 
ascertain  their  customers'  ability  to  judge  of  the  relative  value 
ol'  articles,  and  suit  their  remarks  and  prices  accordingly. 

Messrs.  Sharp  &  Co.  had  quite  a  run ;  they  advertised  great 
bargains  for  sale,  and  no  doubt  their  customers  felt  satisfied 
that  they  really  had  purchased  things  at  cost,  or  even  below 
cost ;  and  no  doubt  Messrs.  Sharp  &  Co.  felt  satisfied  with 
their  success  in  convincing  the  public  that  they  sold  goods 
merely  for  the  pleasure  of  the  thing. 

Being  the  youngest  clerk,  Henry  had  to  receive  and  pa 
tiently  bear  with  rebuffs  and  pert  orders  from  those  who  had 
higher  stations,  although  not  his  superiors  in  age,  and  far  below 
him  in  general  attainments.  But  of  this  he  had  been  warned, 
and  resolved  to  bear  the  ordeal  without  giving  way  to  his 
feelings.  His  face,  indeed,  would  flush  and  his  eyes  sparkle, 
but  his  lips  were  not  allowed  to  utter  any  intemperate  expres 
sions.  For  some  cause,  it  was  evident  to  him  that  he  was 
not  a  favorite,  nor  likely  to  be.  But  Henry  was  not  so  much 
disturbed  on  that  account  as  many  of  his  age  would  have 
been.  He  had  bound  himself  to  no  particular  man  or  set  of 
men ;  so  far  as  duty  was  concerned.  He  had  thrown  himself 
into  the  field  of  labor,  resolved  there  to  work  under  the  eye 
of  One  "  who  seeth  in  secret,"  and  so  long  as  he  acquitted 
himself  manfully  to  that  great  Overseer,  he  was  content  to 
bear  rude  treatment,  or  reproof  which  he  did  not  deserve. 

In  the  centre  of  the  store  of  Messrs.  Sharp  <fe  Co.,  was  a  high 
desk  with  a  small  railing,  which  inclosed  it  from  obtrusion ; 
and,  either  seated  or  standing,  within  that  inclosure  through 
the  day  and  most  of  the  evening  was  the  book-keeper  of  the 
concern. 

He  was  a  small,  thick-set  man  of  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
with  rather  a  brown  complexion  ;  dark  bushy  hair ;  large  eyes, 
dark  and  penetrating ;  heavy  eyebrows,  and  altogether  a  stern 
*  3 


170  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

expression  of  countenance.  He  was  usually  dressed,  when 
at  his  desk,  in  a  faded  green  frock  coat  and  black  pants — 
the  latter  much  the  most  respectable  in  appearance.  The 
green  coat,  however,  was  always  laid  off,  when  he  left  his 
desk  and  went  to  his  meals;  he  seldom  left  for  any  other 
purpose  ;  and  then  he  arrayed  himself  in  one  of  London  brown, 
well  made,  and  of  fair  quality ;  and  when  thus  rigged,  with 
boots  neatly  polished  and  his  hat  well  brushed,  he  made  quite 
as  much  show  as  was  at  all  necessary  for  one  of  his  calling. 

He  was  not  given  to  talking,  and  when  addressed  by  any 
of  the  inmates  of  the  store  on  a  matter  of  business,  his 
answer  was  always  in  as  few  words  as  possible.  Henry  had 
never  ventured  to  speak  to  him,  for  he  had  formed  an  opinion 
that  the  gentleman  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed,  and  had  no 
disposition  to  mingle  with,  or  concern  himself  about  those 
around  him,  any  further  than  was  necessary. 

He  could  not  help  noticing,  however,  that  at  times  the 
gentleman  when  not  occupied  in  writing,  and  his  pen  was  at 
rest  behind  his  ear,  he  would  be  looking  at  those  who  were 
employed  as  salesmen — fixing  his  eye  sometimes  on  them  and 
sometimes  on  Messrs.  Sharp  &  Catchem,  and  once  or  twice 
Henry  met  his  keen  gaze  resting  on  himself.  It  was  not 
quite  agreeable,  as  he  was  somewhat  sensitive  on  the  subject  of 
being  watched. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  store  was  generally  cleared  of  the 
clerks,  with  the  exception  of  Henry,  who  had  so  far  learned 
the  prices  of  good  as  to  be  able  to  serve  the  few  lower  class  of 
purchasers  who  might  happen  in  after  that  hour,  and  the  book 
keeper.  Henry  remained  to  lock  up  the  store,  and  the  other 
person  to  enjoy  a  little  quiet  time  with  the  newspaper  after 
his  labors  for  the  day  were  over. 

One  evening^  after  Henry  had  been  waiting  upon  a  female, 
who,  from  her  appearance,  was  doubtless  poor,  who  wanted  a 
calico  dress  and  some  stockings,  very  much  to  his  surprise,  the 
gentleman  who  was  seated  by  the  store,  and  had  been  watch 
ing  his  proceedings,  called  out — 

"  Come,  sit  down  here  ;  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Henry  was  glad  to  sit  down,' but  what  the  gentleman  could 
have  to  say  to  him  he  could  not  imagine. 

"  Do  you  know,  young  man,  that  you  have  been  breaking 
one  of  the  rules  of  the  store  ?" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         171 

"  I  am  not  conscious  of  having  done  so,"  said  Henry,  look 
ing  earnestly  at  the  questioner. 

"  You  aint,  eh  !"  Well,  do  you  ever  hear  Mr.  Puffem,  our 
head  salesman,  or  Messrs.  Sharp  <fe  Catchem,  taking  pains  to 
point  out  a  deficiency  in  any  of  our  articles  ?  or  to  pick 
out  a  real  genuine  article  that  would  be  cheap,  for  a  poor 
woman  ?" 

"  Do  they  not,  sir !" 

"  I  ask  you,  did  you  ever  hear  them  do  such  a  thing  ?  The 
right  way,  you  know,  is  to  slip  off  the  bad  articles  on  them 
that  are  not  very  likely  to  notice  them." 

!'  Is  that  right,  do  you  think,  sir  ?" 

"  Messrs.  Sharp  &  Catchem  think  it  right,  and  Mr.  Puffem 
thinks  it  right,  and  you  have  got  to  please  them,  you  know." 

"  I  should  wish  to  please  them  in  some  other  way." 

"  It  can't  be  done,  my  young  friend,  we — that  is,  Messrs. 
Sharp  &  Catchem — go  for  making  money.  Money,  you 
know,  is  the  great  thing  in  this  world,  or  in  this  city,  no 
matter  how  you  get  it,  if  you  don't  break  open  trunks  or  poke 
your  ringers  into  people's  pockets  so  as  to  get  into  limbo ;  you 
mustn't  do  that,  it  aint  respectable,  and  it  won't  pay.  Where 
are  you  from  ?" 

"  The  country." 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  there  were  several  reasons  ;  one  was,  I  had  no  place 
to  stay  in  particular." 

"  No  parents,  I  suppose — no  home — something  of  that 
kind  ;  and  you  thought,  maybe,  there  would  be  a  better 
cliance  here.  Where  do  you  live  now  ?" 

"  I  live  in  Cortlandt  street  at  present,  but  am  going,  after 
this,  up  town.  I  was  invited  by  an  acquaintance  to  stay  at 
his  house,  and  I  have  done  so ;  but  Mr.  Sharp  told  me,  a  day 
or  t\\o  since,  that  I  must  have  my  meals  at  hours  more  con 
venient  for  the  business,  and  as  I  could  not,  of  course,  ask  a 
family  to  change  on  my  account,  I  have  been  making  arrange 
ments  to  board  up  town." 

"  Got  money  enough,  I  suppose  ?" 

"  My  salary." 

"  How  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  reasonable  are  you  going 
to  live  on  that?" 

"I  must  try  to." 


172  TKUE  TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

"  When  you  learn  how  to  do  that,  just  let  me  know  it,  will 
you  ?  I  should  like  to  take  a  lesson  or  two.  Why,  man,  it 
takes  me  half  of  my  salary  of  six  hundred  dollars  to  make  the 
two  ends  meet.  I  am  very  much  afraid  you  are  going  on  the 
pinching  plan  ;  but,  whatever  else  you  do,  don't  do  that — 
pinch  everything  and  everybody  but  your  own  particular 
bread-basket.  You  see,  as  things  go  here,  there  is  such  a 
strain  upon  body  and  soul,  that  the  only  way  to  keep  them 
from  parting  company  is  to  have  a  good  supply  of  fodder,  and 
of  the  right  kind.  Why,  man,  you  can't  live  upon  slops  here ; 
you'd  go  off  like  a  soap  bubble." 

Henry  smiled,  for  he  began  to  understand  the  manner  of 
the  gentleman,  and  to  think  his  rather  severe  countenance 
did  not  truly  represent  his  heart. 

"  But  truly,  my  boy,  how  do  you  think  to  manage  on  one 
hundred  dollars  a  year  ?  let  me  hear,  now." 

"  Why,  sir,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  be  very  prudent ;  you 
see  I  have  engaged  with  a  family  in  Oliver  street;  the  lady 
does  my  washing." 

"  Be  careful,  be  careful  how  you  speak ;  we  don't  call 
washerwomen  ladies — not  here." 

"  I  am  to  have  a  bedroom  and  my  breakfast  and  supper  for 
one  dollar  and  a  half  a  week." 

"  What  kind  of  breakfast  and  supper  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  they  are  plain  people ;  the  man  is  a 
cartman,  and  the  lady" — 

"  Does  your  washing.     Well,  go  oil." 

"  She  takes  in  washing ;  they  seem  to  be  very  decent 
people,  and  I  am  to  fare  as  they  do." 

"  But  the  dinner — that's  the  main  chance — what  is  to 
become  of  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  much  about  dinner ;  a  cracker  or  two, 
or  something  of  that  kind,  will  answer." 

The  gentleman  now  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair,  put 
his  hands  up  behind  his  head,  and  began  whistling  the  old 
tune  of  u  Molly,  put  the  kettle  on."  He  then  turned  towards 
Henry,  and,  looking  rather  earnestly  in  his  face,  said — 

"  This  is  a  queer  world,  aint  it  ?" 

"  A  great  many  good  things  in  it." 

"  A  great  many  sinners  in  it.  I  mean  real  hard,  gritty 
sinners,  with  no  souls  to  speak  of,  and  no  feeling  but  foi 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         173 

their  own  pocket,  and  to  fill  that  they'd  squeeze  a  man  out  of 
his — it's  no  matter,  though ;  but  you  see  just  how  it  is, 
Messrs.  Sharp,  Catchem  &  Swindle — what  makes  you  look 
at  me  so  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  never  heard  before  the  name  of  the  gentleman  who 
is  the  company." 

"  That's  very  likely.  The  firm  sounds  regular  enough, 
Sharp  &  Catchem,  but  when  you  come  to  put  Swindle  on  the  end 
of  it,  you  see,  it  would  be  apt  to  make  folks  stare,  you  know, 
if  they  did  nothing  more.  But  Swindle  is  the  likeliest  of  the 
bunch ;  he  is  a  real  man  with  a  whole  heart ;  but  he  never 
troubles  his  head  about  matters  in  the  store ;  he  supplies  the 
needful  and  the  other  two,  you  see,  just  make  the  most  of 
things.  But  I  was  going  to  say,  here  are  these  two  men, 
Sharp  &  Catchem,  they  wanted  a  person  to  do  just  what 
you  are  now  doing,  they  must  have  one,  could  not  do 
without  him  no  way.  They  know  all  about  you,  and  that 
you  have  no  means  but  what  they  give  you ;  and  they 
know,  too,  that  you  have  not  been  obliged  to  pay  board,  and 
that  you  might  remain  where  you  were ;  and  they  knew  when 
they  told  you  that  you  must  change  your  boarding-place,  in 
what  situation  it  would  place  you ;  and  that  only  by  half 
starving  yourself  you  could  manage  to  live  at  all  on  what 
they  give  you  ;  and  if  you  were  to  ask  them  to  raise  your 
salary  they  would  show  you  the  door  in  quick  time." 

"  But  I  shall  not  ask  them  to  raise  my  salary ;  not  this 
year." 

"  You'll  never  see  another  year  if  you  try  to  feed  yourself 
on  a  hundred  dollars !  You  say  you  are  from  the  country — 
what  part  of  the  country  ?" 

"  Connecticut.  I  was  born  in  Maple  Cove — but  have 
lived  some  years  at  Stratton." 

"  Maple  Cove  !  why,  man,  I  am  from  there  myself!  Who 
are  you  ? — I  mean,  what's  your  name  besides  Henry  ?"  And 
the  gentleman  leaned  towards  him,  and  put  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"  Thornton — Henry  Thornton." 

"  I  know  now.    Your  father  used  to  live  in  that  pretty  cot 
tage  near  the  mill  ?" 
"  The  same." 
"  I  remember  ;  but  you  see  I  was  about  your  age  when  I 


174:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J    OK, 

left  home,  and  fool  enough  I  was  to  leave  such  a  place — but  I 
wanted  to  do  great  things,  so  off  I  carne  and  left  the  old 
folks  all  alone.  I  believe  there's  been  a  curse  on  me  for 
that — not  but  that  they  had  enough  to  live  on ;  but  I  was 
the  only  chick  they  had,  and  I  know  they  must  have  been 
lonesome — I  know  they  must — rot  it ! — I  hate  to  think  of 
it !"  And  Henry  noticed  the  waters  gathering  in  his  eye 
— he  had  warm  feelings — morose  as  he  had  thought  him  to 
be. 

"  But  that's  past — it  can't  be  helped  now.  Well,  I  got  a 
situation,  and  learned  business,  and  then  the  -old  folks  you 

see — rot  it  all !" He  had  to  take  out  his  handkerchief 

this  time — his  fierce  looks  could  not  save  him. 

"  Well,  when  they  were  gone,  I  just  mortgaged  the  old 
place — everlasting  shame  on  me  for  doing  it !  It  had  lain 
there  for  a  hundred  years — a  farm  of  one  hundred  acres- 
woods,  water,  old  homestead,  strong  as  a  castle — shade  trees 
— orchards — everything  a  man  could  want  in  this  world — 
and  such  a  view  from  it !  Oh,  it  makes  me  heartsick  to 
think  of  it !  Well,  no  matter.  There  it  was  as  I  have  said, 
and  had  been  for  a  hundred  years.  My  father,  grandfather, 
and  great-grandfather — all  lived  there,  and  it  had  been  all 
that  time  as  free  from  debt  as  the  old  ocean  is ;  not  a  man 
on  earth  could  claim  an  inch  of  it,  but  those  who  worked 
upon  it,  and  lived  upon  it,  and  ate  its  fruits  and  enjoyed  its 
beautiful  scenery.  I  mortgaged  it  for  three  thousand  dollars, 
and  with  a  few  thousand  more  that  the  old  gentleman  left 
me,  in  I  goes  for  it,  neck  and  heels  in  business.  Hurrah,  boys! 
Great  times.  Goods  sell  easy — credit  easy — books  showed 
well  at  the  end  of  the  year — sure  to  be  rich,  no  mistake ;  just  as 
easy  as  turn  your  hand  over !  Well,  I  began  at  twenty-one,  or 
near  twenty-tw6;  at  twenty-five  my  balance  was — but  no  matter 
what  it  was,  it's  gone  to — to  Jericho  now !  You  see,  every 
once  in  a  while  we  have  a  turn  over  here ;  things  are  all 
brought  up  standing.  Wind  is  bad,  dead  ashore ;  breakers  on 
the  lee;  sails  split,  masts  topple  over;  and  altogether  the — 
the  old  cat  to  pay.  Well,  the  first  brush,  you  sec,  just  swept 
me  high  and  dry;  I  was  brought  up  with  nothing  but  bare 
poles  left.  Got  enough,  however,  out  of  the  wreck  to  clear 
off  all  debts,  but  it  took  the  whole.  There  I  was,  not  a  hun 
dred  dollars  to  save  myself,  and  a  mortgage  on  the  old  place 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         175 

for  tbree  thousand  dollars.  '  Now,'  says  I,  '  what's  to  be 
done  ?'  To  go  back  into  the  country  and  take  up  the  hoe 
and  the  plough  and  pay  off  the  debt  in  that  way,  was  not  to 
be  thought  of.  Some  said,  '  Sell  it  and  take  the  rest  of  the 
money  and  try  again.'  Said  I,  '  When  I  do  that  you  may 
take  my  head  and  stick  a  handle  in  it  to  mop  your  store 
steps  with  ;  no,  no.'  So  I  thought  it  out.  I  had  seen  all 
the  sights  I  wanted  to  see  in  the  city;  I  had  got  a  pretty 
good  smattering  of  the  ways  here,  and  had  learned  some  of 
the  tricks  here  by  which  money  is  made,  and  how  it  might  be 
lost.  I  had  got  a  little  experience,  too,  in  the  matter  of 
devising  ways  and  means ;  of  getting  into  pinches  and  get 
ting  out  of  them,  and  thinks  I  the  dance  aint  worth  what  it 
costs  to  pay  the  fiddler.  Let  me  only  have  my  old  homestead 
once  out  of  debt,  and  then  they  may  make  the  money 
that  are  willing  to  engage  in  the  race.  And  so,  you  see,  I 
took  to  my  fingers  and  was  determined  to  make  them  help 
me  out  of  the  scratch.  I  got  a  book-keeper's  berth,  small 
salary  at  first,  but  fair  now.  Hard  work,  I  know ;  but  when 
a  man  can  see  day-light,  although  it  may  be  a  good  ways  off, 
yet  he  can  hope  to  get  out  of  the  hole  at  last.  I  have  paid 
off  one  thousand  dollars,  and  the  rest  will  be  out  of  the  way 
one  of  these  days  ;  when,  can't  say ;  but  it  shall  go  if  my 
stumps  can  hold  out,  and  then,  '  good  bye,'  says  I,  '  to  money- 
making.'  I  tell  you  what,  my  friend,  when  I  once  set  my 
foot  on  that  blessed  old  place,  and  feel  that  no  one  has  a  right 
there  but  myself,  I  am  the  happiest  man  that  can  be  found  in 
the  city,  look  where  you  may." 

"  But  I  had  nothing  left  to  me,  and  therefore,  I  thought  I 
could  get  along  more  readily  here  than  in  the  country." 

"  That  may  all  be ;  but  between  you  and  me,  and  this 
store,  I  advise  you,  come  what  will,  don't  be  too  eager  to  fall 
into  the  ways  of  our  firm  here  ;  they  ain't  the  end  of  the  law 
as  to — but  no  matter  ;  and  when  you  can  get  a  better  berth 
in  some  other  sort  of  trade — why,  if  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  do  it;  for  the  present  necessity,  though,  keep  quiet 
hold  on  to  the  bird,  you've  got,  and  any  time  if  I  can  be 
a  help  to  you  in  a  sly  way,  just  let  me  know — you  will, 
ha  ?" 

"  I  thank  you  certainly  very  much  for  your  kindness." 

The  winter  had  now  set   in,  and  Henry  had  got  fairly 


176  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

located  as  his  new  quarters  in  Oliver  street.  He  still  occa 
sionally  made  a  call  at  his  friends'  the  Marstons,  and  was 
always  well  received  and  treated  with  great  kindness. 

Evart  had  changed  somewhat  in  appearance ;  he  dressed 
in  the  most  fashionable  style,  and  spent  much  of  his  time  in 
promenading  Broadway  in  company  with  some  young  men 
who  were  beginning  to  make  themselves  conspicuous  in  a 
way  that,  to  the  judgment  of  people  in  general,  marked  them 
as  on  the  road  to  ruin ;  although  friends  laughed  at  their 
freaks  as  the  mere  "  sowing  of  wild  oats,"  which  all  fine 
bloods  must  do  sooner  or  later. 

One  day  as  they  were  passing  the  store  of  Messrs.  Sharp 
&  Catchem,  Henry  noticed  them  'pause  and  look  up  at  the 
sign ;  at  the  same  time  he  heard  Evart  say  : 

"  Come,  boys  ;  I  want  to  get  a  pair  of  gloves.  Old  Sharp's 
is  as  good  as  any  place." 

"  Sharp,  Catchem  <fe  Co. — what  a  firm  !"  said  one  of  his 
companions.  "  Look  out,  Marston,  you  don't  get  shaved  !"  and 
then  in  rather  a  boisterous  manner,  and  laughing  loudly, 
they  entered.  Henry  was  alarmed,  and  moved  as  quickly  as 
he  could  towards  the  back  part  of  the  store,  while  Mr.  Puf- 
fem  stood  quietly  awaiting  the  gentleman's  orders. 

"  Let's  see  your  gloves — your  best  Woodstock." 

Mr.  Puffem,  as  well  as  his  principals,  had  heard  some  of 
the  remarks  and  noticed  the  manners  of  the  young  men,  and 
not  therefore,  being  in  the  very  best  humor,  moved  rather 
slowly,  and  laid  the  box  down  on  the  counter  in  a  very 
cavalier  manner.  Evart  looked  at  him  sternly. 

"  Are  these  all  you've  got  ?" 

"  Not  exactly." 

"  Let's  see  more  of  them." 

"  Won't  they  answer  ?" 

"  That's  my  own  business  ;  I  want  a  choice." 

Mr.  Puflem  colored  deeply,  but  made  no  reply,  merely 
with  the  same  leisurely  movement,  drew  forth  another  box,  and 
laying  it  down,  called  a  younger  clerk  to  wait  upon  the  gen 
tleman,  while  he,  with  his  back  turned  towards  the  counter, 
began  arranging  some  articles  on  the  shelves. 

One  of  the  young  men  then  said  to  Evart,  in  a  tone  not  very 
loud,  but  sufficiently  so  to  reach  the  ear  of  him  for  whom 
they  were  designed : 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         177 

"  That  counter-jumper  is  too  proud  for  his  business ;  let  us 
go  somewhere  else." 

"You  are  welcome  to  do  that,  sir;  we  did  not  ask  you  in." 

"  We  want  none  of  your  impertinence,  sir ;  we  were  not 
speaking  to  you !" 

This  was  not  said  by  Evart,  who  just  then  saw  Henry,  and 
stepping  up,  shook  hands  with  him  across  the  counter,  and 
leaning  over  upon  it  began  to  chat  pleasantly,  and  in  a  few 
moments  asked  him  to  come  that  way  and  pick  him  out  a 
pair  of  gloves.  Henry  would  have  declined,  for  he  never 
ventured  to  wait  upon  customers,  without  the  duty  was  assigned 
him  by  those  whose  department  it  properly  was,  but  he 
.  stepped  up  to  Mr.  Puflem,  and  asked  in  his  pleasant  manner, 

"  Shall  I  wait  upon  Mr.  Marston  ?" 

"  You  go  back  to  your  place  and  fold  up  these  goods ;  when 
I  want  you  I'll  call  you." 

"  Come,  Marston,  I  can't  stand  that ;"  and  taking  his  arm, 
"  come,  there  are  moro  gloves  to  be  found  elsewhere."  Evart 
releasing  his  arm  from  his  companion,  turned  a  fierce  look  at 
the  angry  clerk. 

"  I  shall  pay  you  for  your  insolence,  sir,  at  some  other 
time." 

What  answer  Mr.  Puffem  made,  Elenry  did  not  hear ;  he 
was  much  alarmed  though,  for  he  saw  that  Messrs.  Sharp  & 
Catchem  were  both  looking  very  cross,  and  Mr.  Belden,  the 
book-keeper,  had  turned  upon  his  seat,  and  put  his  pea  be 
hind  his  ear,  and  was  staring  wildly  first  at  him,  and  then  at 
the  rest  of  the  concern. 

That  Henry  was  not  to  blame  there  could  have  been  no 
doubt  in  the  mind  of  any  one  who  witnessed  his  conduct ;  but 
Mr.  Sharp  had  missed  the  sale  of  a  pair  of  gloves,  and,  al 
though  he  cared  not  particularly  for  the  treatment  Mr.  Puf 
fem  had  received,  yet  he  must  seem  to  resent  it,  and  began 
at  once  to  talk  loudly,  and  to  say  a  great  deal  about  dandies 
and  low-bred  people,  and  finally  he  stepped  up  to  Henry — 

"  You  seem  to  be  acquainted  with  those  young  men  *" 

"  1  am  particularly  acquainted,  sir,  with  one  of  them — the 
others  T  have  been  merely  introduced  to." 

"  Well,  my  young  man,  I  can  tell  you,  the  sooner  you  drop 
such  acquaintance  the  better ;  if  you  don't  you  will  be1 
dropped  off  from  my  list  of  clerks  in  short  order,  and  the  next 

8* 


ITS  TKTJE  TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

time  people  call  you  to  wait  upon  them,  don't  you  stir  until 
you  are  bidden — do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Certainly,  sir — I  am  very  sorry  to  have  given  offence — I 
did  not  design  to  do  wrong." 

This  pleasant  answer  took  Mr.  Sharp  by  surprise.  It  gave 
him  no  chance  to  say  anything  further,  which,  from  the  as 
pect  of  his  countenance  at  the  time,  it  was  evident  he  intended 
to  do.  It  was  unfortunate  for  Henry  though,  that  Mr.  Puf- 
fem's  feelings  had  been  wounded,  and  from  that  time,  when 
ever  an  opportunity  was  afforded  that  young  getleman,  to  put 
a  harder  task  upon  Henry,  or  to  make  him  feel  his  depend 
ence,  he  was  sure  to  take  advantage  of  it,  and  for  reasons 
which  will  soon  be  evident,  it  was  much  against  Henry's  in 
terest  that  he  had  been  connected  in  the  minds  of  these  gen 
tlemen  with  this  rude  behavior  of  the  young  men. 

It  was  not  long  after  the  occurrence  above  mentioned,  as 
Henry  was  going  along  on  his  lonely  way  up  town,  after  hav 
ing  closed  the  store  and  parted  with  his  friend  Belden,  when 
just  opposite  the  old  Mead  Gardens,  near  the  Hospital,  he 
came  suddenly  upon  some  young  men  who  seemed  to  be  in 
some  difficulty,  for  there  was  loud  talking,  and  people  were 
stopping  to  see  what  was  the  matter,  and,  as  was  very 
natural,  he  stopped  too. 

When,  to  his  utter  dismay,  he  perceived  Evart  and  Mr. 
Puffem  standing  face  to  face,  evidently  in  a  hostile  attitude, 
and  each  party  with  companions  who  seemed  by  no  means 
disposed  to  allay  matters,  for  they  too  were  throwing  out 
harsh  expressions  mingled  with  oaths.  It  was  very  clear  to 
Henry  that  mischief  was  at  hand,  and  to  his  chagrin  and  sor 
row  he  saw  signs  of  unnatural  excitement  in  his  friend  Evart, 
such  as  he  had  never  noticed  before.  He  was,  without  doubt, 
under  the  influence  of  liquor,  and  could  hardly  maintain  a 
steady  position. 

Not  pausing  to  think  of  consequences  to  himself,  he  yielded 
at  once  to  the  impulse  of  friendship,  pressed  through  to 
the  side  of  Evart,  and  taking  his  arm  endeavored  to  lead 
him  off. 

"  No,  no,  my  boy  !  I  want  to  give  that  young  counter- 
jumper  a  lesson  ;  I  want  to  teach  him  how  to  behave  him 
self — the  low-lived  fellow  !" 

With  that  the  wrath  of  Mr.  Puffem,  having  been  already 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        179 

sufficiently  excited,  went  boiling  over,  and  he  rushed  furiously 
at  young  Marston,  aiming  a  blow  directly  at  his  face. 

Henry  was  possessed  of  great  muscular  strength  for  one  of 
his  age,  and  when  excited  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  a  match 
for  one  much  older  than  himself.  He  was  now,  however, 
only  an:aous  to  protect  his  friend — no  passion  nerved  his  arm — 
his  only  thought  was  for  Evart's  safety ;  by  a  quick  movement 
he  turned  aside  the  blow,  and  Mr.  Puffem,  impelled  by  his 
own  impetus,  went  reeling  amid  the  crowd,  and  brought  up 
on  his  hands  and  knees.  A  loud  laugh  and  a  huzza  from  the 
bystanders  were  not  calculated  to  appease  the  feelings  of  Mr. 
Puffem,  and  soon  recovering  an  erect  position,  came  on  again 
like  a  madman,  and  was  making  directly  for  Henry.  Some 
gentlemen,  however,  who  had  been  witnesses  of  the  scene, 
and  admiring  Henry's  conduct  in  trying  to  get  his  friend 
away  from  the  crowd,  immediately  interposed,  threatening 
all  parties  with  a  call  for  the  watch  if  they  did  not  imme 
diately  disperse.  Mr.  Puffem,  however,  was  with  difficulty 
kept  at  bay ;  his  wrath  seemed  to  have  turned  entirely  upon 
Henry. 

"  I  want  to  give  that  young  scoundrel  what  he  deserves." 

"  I  think,"  said  one  of  the  gentlemen,  "  you  have  no  one  to 
blame  but  yourself,  so  far  as  that  young  man  is  concerned.  I 
am  sorry  that  the  friend  he  is  protecting  is  not  in  a  better 
condition  to  take  care  of  himself." 

Evart  was  anxious  to  return  to  the  encounter,  but  Henry's 
entreaties  to  the  young  men  who  were  with  his  friend  to 
aid  in  getting  him  away,  prevailed,  and  Evart  was  hurried 
out  of  the  tumult,  while  Mr.  Puffem  remained  to  tell  his  own 
story,  and  what  he  would  have  done  if  only  let  alone. 

"But  that  chap  shall  smart  for  this  night's  work,  I'll  war 
rant  him  that." 

Henry  heard  this  remark,  but  whether  intended  for 
himself  or  Evart,  he  did  not  know,  nor  did  he,  at  the  time, 
think  much  about  it,  his  whole  mind  being  absorbed  in  his 
interest  for  the  latter,  and  with  thinking  how  he  should  get 
him  home  and  to  his  room  without  his  mother's  knowledge 
of  his  condition. 

The  young  men  left  them  at  the  corner  of  Cortlandt  street, 
and  Henry  and  Evart  walked  in  silence  down  that  street  un 
til  they  reached  the  house,  when  Evart  spoke — 


180  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

W 

"  You  will  stay  with  me  to-night,  Henry  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  me  to." 

"  I  do ;  I  want  to  talk  with  you.  I  have  not  seen  you  for 
a  long  time,  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  Plague  OD 
it.  I  wish,  Henry  " 

But  what  he  was  going  to  say  was  interrupted  by  the  ser 
vant  opening  the  door.  A  glance  from  the  latter  to  Evart, 
and  a  wink  to  Henry,  assured  him  that  the  condition  of  his 
friend  was  noticed.  Henry  watched  a  chance  to  whisper  to 
the  man. 

"  Is  Mrs.  Marston  up  ?" 

"  She  is  gone  to  bed." 

"  You  will  say  nothing  about  this  to  her  ?" 

"  Not  I.     It  would  break  her  heart." 

Before  Evart  retired  to  rest,  the  effect  of  the  excitement  he 
had  been  under  began  to  wear  off;  and,  as  usual,  a  corre 
sponding  reaction  began  to  take  place.  For  a  while  he  sat 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  and  Henry  thought  he 
saw  him  occasionally  wipe  away  a  tear ;  but  he  spoke  not  to 
him,  as  he  wished  to  let  his  feelings  do  their  own  work. 
His  conscience,  he  believed,  was  awakening,  and  that  power 
ful  monitor,  when  thoroughly  aroused,  could  do  more  than 
the  tongue  of  the  dearest  friend. 

The  night  was  passing  on,  but  Henry  felt  no  inclination 
for  retiring.  He  too  had  subjects  for  thought  on  his  own  ac 
count  not  very  agreeable.  He  had  indeed  clone  nothing  that 
he  felt  was  wrong;  but  he  had  learned  some  lessons  in  life 
which  taught  him  that  it  was  not  always  necessary  to  be  in 
the  wrong  in  order  to  bring  upon  one's  head  the  displeasure 
of  others. 

That  Mr.  Puffem  was  highly  incensed,  he  knew  ;  and  that 
his  representation  of  the  affair  would  bring  upon  him  the 
displeasure  of  his  employers,  he  also  believed ;  but  concluded 
that  it  could  not  result  in  a  serious  difficulty.  He  would  no 
doubt  be  reproved,  and  might  suffer  many  annoyances  from 
Mr.  Puffem  ;  but  he  resolved  to  bear  them  patiently. 

"  Henry,"  said  Evart,  raising  his  head  and  looking  towards 
him,  "  come,  sit  by  me." 

As  Henry  approached  he  could  see  distinctly  that  Evart  had 
been  weeping,  and  that  his  countenance  bore  the  marks  of  a 
mind  sorely  distressed. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         181 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  I  shall  do,  for  I  am  very  un 
happy.  I  do  not  wish  you  to  excuse  me  or  apologize  for  me 
even  to  myself.  But  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Do  you  mean,  Evart,  in  reference  to  your  mother  ?" 

"  My  mother  !  No,  I  had  not  thought  of  her.  I  do  hope 
she  may  not  hear  of  it.  Oh,  it  will  almost  break  her  heart ! 
I  must  oee  Joe,  and  entreat  him  to  say  nothing." 

"  I  have  already  spoken  to  him,  and  he  has  promised  to 
do  so." 

"  You  are  very  considerate — very  kind  indeed  !  But  I 
wonder,  Henry,  you  have  not  left  me  ;  I  do  not  deserve  your 
friendship." 

"Do  not  talk  so,  Evart.  Do  you  think  I  would  desert 
such  a  friend  as  you  under  any  circumstances  ?" 

"  No,  I  am  sure  you  would  not.  I  have  proof  enough  of 
that.  But  what  shall  I  do,  Henry  ?  I  am  most  miserable  !" 

"  There  is  no  way  I  know  of,  Evart,  but  when  we  have 
done  wrong  and  are  conscious  of  it,  to  repent  and  ask  for 
giveness  of  God  ;  and  ask  him  to  help  us  avoid  the  evil,  and 
do  that  which  is  right." 

Evart  made  no  reply.  He  looked  at  Henry  as  though 
much  astonished.  The  idea  presented  was  something  new — 
unthought  of  before.  It  sounded  strangely  to  his  ears.  Alas, 
poor  youth !  His  mother,  kind  and  indulgent  as  she  was, 
and  with  her  heart  full  of  love  to  him,  had  never  taught  him 
that  there  was  a  higher  Power  to  whom  his  actions  had  refe 
rence,  and  to  whom  he  was  accountable.  She  had  never 
taken  him  in  childhood  and  taught  him  to  kneel  beside  her, 
and  lay  his  head  upon  her  lap,  and  say,  "  Our  Father  who 
art  in  heaven."  She  had  not  prayed  herself;  she  had  lived 
without  God !  He  had  not  been  in  all  her  thoughts.  His 
name  was  never  mentioned  to  this  dear  son  as  one  to  whom 
he  owed  allegiance,  even  beyond  that  which  was  due  to  her. 
He  had  been  trained  by  her — who  should  have  been  his 
guiding  angel  to  lead  him  on  to  God  and  heaven — as  a  mere 
ureature  of  this  world!  His  highest  duty  to  be  kind  to  her, 
and  his  only  aim  to  taste  the  pleasures  which  this  world 
affords !  She  would  indeed  have  had  him  put  restraints 
upon  his  passions,  and  avoid  debasing  company  and  low  pur 
suits.  But  otherwise,  to  sip  all  sweets  which  sense  affords, 
and  roll  in  every  luxury  that  wealth  could  purchase !  This 


182  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;    OE, 

was  her  wish  concerning  him,  and  for  this  she  had  trained 
him,  and  for  naught  else. 

At  times,  indeed,  she  spoke  of  some  employment  that  might 
perhaps  be  useful  during  his  minority,  whereby  he  would  be 
kept  from  such  companions  as  might  lead  him  into  impro 
prieties  ;  but  even  this  desire  had  been  but  feebly  expressed. 
To  make  his  mark  in  life  by  his  own  manly  efforts ;  to  fulfill 
the  great  design  of  his  creation ;  to  expand  his  views  beyond 
his  own  selfish  ends;  to  make  him  feel  that  man  was  his 
brother ;  and  that,  in  this  world,  where  sorrow  and  misfortune 
are  so  rife,  it  must  be  his  part  to  mete  out  of  his  abundance 
to  the  needy,  to  bind  up  the  broken  heart,  to  give  a  helping 
hand  to  those  who  were  struggling  in  the  deep  waters,  and 
thus  to  make  his  track  through  life  lovely  and  refreshing.  All 
this  she  had  not  thought  of,  for  this  her  teachings  had  not 
aimed. 

No  wonder,  then,  if  the  reply  of  Henry  filled  him  with 
amazement.  He  was  indeed  unhappy  ;  but  his  only  idea  was 
how  to  get  relief  from  the  discomfort  and  shame  of  which  he 
was  conscious. 

That  he  had  sinned  against  his  Maker ;  that  he  must  ask 
forgiveness  of  One  whom  he  had  never  in  his  life  addressed, 
and  whose  name,  at  times,  he  had  carelessly  used ;  or  to  go  to 
Him  for  help — was  indeed  a  new  idea.  And  yet  the  serious 
manner  of  Henry,  and  the  assurance  he  felt  of  his  friendship, 
caused  him  to  reflect  on  what  he  had  said  ;  for  some  moments 
he  was  silent,  and  then  replied — 

"That  would  be  new  business  for  me,  Henry ;  oh,  you  do 
not  know  how  hard  it  would  be  for  me  to  do  that." 

"We  must  all  come  to  it  though,  Evart,  if  we  would  be 
happy." 

"  It  is  easy,  no  doubt,  for  you,  Henry,  because  you  are  so 
good." 

"  Oh,  stop,  Evart ;  do  not  talk  so ;  you  do  not  know  me ; 
I  am  not  good — far  from  it — I  wish  I  was." 

"  Well,  you  are  always  trying  to  do  right,  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"  We  ought  all  of  us  to  do  that ;  but  we  need  a  great  deal 
of  help  to  enable  us  to  do  it ;  and  no  one  can  help  us  like 
our  Father  in  heaven." 

Evart  looked  at  his  friend  with  intense  interest — 


ALONE   ON   A    WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  183 

"  Oh,  Henry,  I  would  give  anything  to  have  the  feeling 
which  you  seem  to  have  when  you  speak  of  God.  Does  he 
seem  to  you  really  as  your  father  1" 

Henry  was  much  affected ;  he  saw.  the  tear  moistening  the 
eye  of  his  companion  ;  he  knew  that  he  was  feeling  deeply. 
Oh,  how  he  wished  to  be  able  to  unfold  to  him  the  blessedness 
of  such  a  relation  to  the  Supreme  Being  as  the  title  of  Father 
indicated.  But  he  had  never  before  conversed  upon  such 
a  subject — all  he  could  do  was  to  relate  his  own  experi 
ence. 

"  You  cannot  understand,  Evart,  what  it  is  to  be  left  alone, 
entirely  alone  in  the  wide  world — no  one  to  look  to  for  support ; 
no  one  to  receive  you  ;  no  one  to  tell  you  what  to  do,  or  how  to 
do,  or  where  to  go;  and  no  means  of  your  own  ;  nothing  but 
your  own  head,  and  hands,  and  feet.  The  morning  when 
you  and  I  first  met  in  that  cedar  grove  I  had  been  feeling 
very  sad.  You  see  that  spot  of  ground  was  once  my  father's. 
1  had  been  there  many  times  with  him  when  a  little  boy, 
often  of  a  morning  or  evening — you  know  the  prospect  is 
fine  from  it." 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  most  beautiful  view  I  ever  beheld." 

"  I  had  no  idea  how  I  should  feel  when  I  got  there ;  but  it 
brought  back  to  me  all  my  past  life,  and  I  cannot  tell  how 
terribly  dark  and  hopeless  I  felt.  I  sat  down  and  thought 
awhile,  and  then  the  tears  came,  I  could  not  help  it.  After 
a  good  spell  of  weeping  I  took  out  of  my  pocket  a  leaf  from 
the  Bible,  one  that  I  had  torn  from  an  old  book  in  order  to 
have  it  handy,  to  learn  a  certain  chapter  which  my  mother 
had  requested  me  to  commit  to  memory." 

"  Then  your  mother  taught  you  to  read  the  Bible  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  wished  to  have  me  read  it  and  learn  it  too ; 
and  I  know  she  loved  it  herself.  Well,  as  I  began  to  read  that 
leaf,  although  I  had  read  it  manv  times  before,  it  seemed  all 
new  to  me  ;  it  seemed  as  if  God  was  speaking  to  me  and  ask 
ing  me  to  trust  in  him  ;  and  oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  felt. 
'  If  God  would  be  my  father,  and  guide  me  and  take  care  of 
rne,  I  should  not  be  alone  ;  I  need  not  be  afraid.'  And  then, 
Evart,  I  determined  that  I  would  trust  in  him  ;  I  gave  myself 
up  into  his  hands,  and  I  solemnly  promised,  with  his  help, 
to  do  whatever  the  Bible  told  me  was  right,  and  I  mean  to 
stick  to  it." 


184  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

"  Henry,  will  you  lend  me  that  leaf  to-night  ?  you  shall 
have  it  again." 

"  With  all  iny  heart.  I  am  in  no  hurry  for  it,  as  I  have  a 
Bible  in  my  room,  only  I  should  like  to  have  it  again ;  I  wish 
to  keep  it  for  particular  reasons." 

And  then  they  parted  for  the  night,  and,  as  it  proved,  for 
quite  a  period  of  time. 

As  Mr.  Puffem  did  not  get  to  the  store  until  just  before  the 
arrival  of  the  principals,  Henry  was  saved  the  necessity  of  any 
private  communications  from  him,  and  soon  after  their  en 
trance  he  was  sent  off  upon  some  errands.  During  the  more 
busy  parts  of  the  day  all  hands  were  employed,  and  as  Henry 
perceived  no  change  in  the  bearing  of  the  head  clerk  towards 
himself,  he  began  to  indulge  the  hope  that  everything  would 
pass  off  without  any  difficulty. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  he  had  just 
come  in  from  a  long  walk  in  delivering  sundry  small 
parcels  of  goods,  when  Mr.  Sharp  came  up  to  him  and  asked 
him  to  walk  to  the  desk ;  Henry  complied  with  his  re 
quest  immediately. 

"Mr.  Belden,  how  much  is  due  to  this  young  gentleman  ?" 

Mr.  Belden  at  once  turned  over  his  books,  and,  in  a  moment 
more,  handed  a  slip  of  paper  to  Mr.  Sharp. 

"Just  come  this  way,  will  you  ;"  and  Henry  followed  him 
to  the  drawer  of  the  counter,  from  this  Mr.  Sharp  abstracted 
a  small  sum  of  money,  and,  laying  it  down,  asked  Henry  to 
count  it,  looking  at  him  very  sternly  at  the  same  time. 

"  There  are  just  seven  dollars,  sir." 

"  Seven  dollars,  that  is  the  balance  due  you,  here  is  the 
paper ;  and  here  is  an  account  left  this  morning,  I  presume 
it  is  for  you — it  is  your  name  at  least." 

Henry  looked  at  it,  and  no  doubt  looked  very  pale,  for  he 
felt  as  if  all  his  strength  had  departed  from  him ;  and  Mr. 
Sharp  doubtless  noticed  the  effect  it  produced,  for  he  looked 
at  Mr.  Puffem,  and  something  very  like  a  smile  played  upon  the 
lips  of  the  latter  gentleman.  It  was  a  bill  from  the  clothing 
establishment  of  Messrs.  W.  &  Co.,  in  Maiden  lane,  for  thirty- 
three  dollars,  the  price  of  a  suit  of  clothes  purchased  some 
months  since. 

"  That  bill  is  for  you,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  I  expect  it  is,  sir,  but" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         185 

"  No  matter  about  any  explanations,  we  have  nothing  to 
do  with  it ;  only  if  you  were  going  to  remain  here  I  should  say 
to  you  that  we  don't  like  to  have  our  clerks  running  up  bills 
at  tailors  or  anywhere  else ;  but  all  I  have  to  say  is,  that 
we  do  not  need  your  services  any  longer ;  you  have  your 
pay  and  are  at  liberty  to  take  your  hat  as  soon  as  you 
please." 

Too  indignant  to  ask  a  reason  for  such  treatment,  he  at 
once  took  liis  hat,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  walked  from 
the  store.  As  he  was  passing  through  the  door  several  ladies 
were  entering  ;  his  eye  glanced  at  one  of  them  much  younger 
than  the  rest;  she  had  not  seen  him  ;  he  would  have  rushed 
back  and  spoken  to  her,  but  no,  nothing  should  induce  him 
to  cross  that  threshold. 

A  moment  he  paused  on  the  sidewalk,  again  distinctly  he 
saw  those  features  ;  he  could  not  be  mistaken  ;  they  were 
engraven  upon  his  heart ;  they  had  been  present  with  him  in 
all  his  waking  moments,  and  busy  with  his  dreams  at  night ; 
no,  he  could  not  be  mistaken — it  was  Louise  Lovelace. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

WHEN  Evart  Marston  retired  to  rest  that  night,  after  read 
ing  over  carefully  the  little  stray  leaf  which  Henry  had  loaned 
him,  a  variety  of  feelings  began  to  affect  his  mind.  That 
there  was  something  in  these  words  which  carried  conviction 
to  the  heart  of  their  truth  and  wisdom,  he  readily  acknow 
ledged  ;  and  if  he  should  give  himself  up  to  the  observance 
of  them,  he  verily  believed  he  would  be  happier  than  he  had 
ever  been.  He  did  not  wonder  that,  under  Henry's  circum 
stances,  they  had  taken  such  a  strong  hold  of  his  heart ;  nor 
did  he  wonder  that  Henry  seemed  so  cheerful  and  contented, 
even  straitened  as  he  was,  and  obliged  to  labor  so  constantly. 
"  But  Henry  had  no  such  difficulties  to  encounter  as  he,  Evart, 
would  have,  should  he  resolve  to  give  his  whole  heart  to  walk 
in  the  way  thus  pointed  out.  He  had  wealth,  or  would  soon 
have  it;  he  must  live  in  a  certain  style — it  would  be  expected 
of  him.  All  his  family  and  acquaintances  paid  but  small 
regard  to  such  things  ;  must  he  be  singular  ?  Must  he  break 
off  from  them,  and  give  himself  up  to  religion,  and  deny 
himself  all  that  was  agreeable  in  life,  and  walk  in  a  gloomy 
atmosphere  the  rest  of  his  days?  How  could  he  renounce 
all  his  companions,  and  make  no  new  ones  ?  Indeed,  his 
case  was  very  different  from  that-  of  Henry."  Thus  did  he 
reason ;  and  no  wonder,  for  he  bad  only  thought  of  religion 
as  allied  to  fanaticism,  or  poverty  and  gloom !  And  then  an 
opposite  view  was  presented  to  his  mind :  "  Henry  was  not 
sad,  nor  morose,  nor  fanatical ;  he  was  ever  cheerful,  full  of 
hope ;  light  seemed  always  to  be  around  him ;  he  was  ready 
for  all  reasonable  enjoyment  of  the  world.  To  Henry  the 
outer  world  had  a  beauty  which  he,  Evart,  could  not  see  :  ha 
was  certainly  the  happier  of  the  two." 

And  again  :  "  What  would  be  the  consequence,  should  he 
keep  on  in  his  present  course — go  with  his  present  compan 
ions  on  the  road  they  had  been  walking — whither  would  it 
lead?  To  ruin!  Yes,  the  ruin  of  his  best  affections,  the 

186 


TRUE   TO   THE   LAST.  187 

destruction  of  his  domestic  peace,  the  anguish  of  his  mother, 
and  a  premature  grave  !" 

And  thus  the  conflict  went  on  until  he  fell  asleep,  and  did  not 
awake  until  his  servant  called  him,  informing  him  at  the  same 
time  that  young  Mr.  Lovel  and  Mr.  Foster  wished  to  see  him. 

"  Tell  them  to  wait,  Joe ;  I  will  be  down  soon." 

The  reflections  of  the  past  night  had  not,  indeed,  led  him  to 
the  true  source  of  help  for  wisdom  and /strength ;  but  a  salutary 
impression  had  been  made  upon  his  mind.  Some  things  he 
had  resolved  upon,  which  he  determined  at  once  to  carry 
out,  and  his  desire  to  see  these  young  companions  now,  was 
for  a  very  different  purpose  than  any  he  had  hitherto  indulged. 

They  were  his  associates  of  the  last  evening.  Tom  Lovell 
and  Joe  Foster,  as  they  were  usually  called,  were  the  sons  of 
rich  parents;  their  fathers  were  both  living,  and  both  as 
busily  engaged  as  they  had  ever  been  in  making  the  most  of 
their  large  estates.  Tom  was  now  nineteen  years  of  age ;  he 
was  in  college,  and  in  some  way  stumbling  along  through  his 
course ;  not  fond  of  study,  and  without  ambition  to  excel  as 
a  scholar,  he  paid  no  more  attention  to  his  books  than  was 
absolutely  necessary,  and  would  no  doubt  have  been  left 
behind  by  his  clfoS,  except  for  the  fact  of  his  father's  wealth — 
college  professors  are  sometimes  strangely  oblivious  to  the 
delinqencies  of  their  students.  What  Tom  would  make,  his 
father  never  seemed  to  take  into  consideration ;  he.  was  lay 
ing  up  an  abundant  store  for  Tom,  so  that  it  would  be  unne 
cessary  that  his  son  should  do  much  for  himself;  he  would 
be  rich,  and  that,  in  Mr.  Lovell's  view,  was  the  "  summum 
bonurn  !"  At  present,  Tom  was  a  lively  young  man,  fond  of 
company,  ready  to  drink  his  glass  after  dinner,  to  take  his 
hand  at  the  card-table ;  and  if  he  was  out  sometimes  rather 
late  at  night,  or  came  home  in  higher  spirits  than  was  quite 
natural,  it  was  not  thought  much  of.  His  father  did  indeed, 
at  times,  say  to  him, 

"  Tom,  you  must  be  careful ;"  but  nothing  further. 

Joe  Foster  was  not  only  the  son  of  a  wealthy  father,  but 
was  heir  to  a  large  estate  left  him  by  an  uncle ;  so  that  he 
was  placed  in  a  condition  quite  independent  of  what  his 
father  might  leave  him. 

Mr.  Foster  at  times  appeared  to  consider  this  circumstance 
as  unfortunate  for  his  son ;  and  yet  he  was  quite  well  pleased 


188  TBTJE   TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

to  point  out  to  his  friends  the  elegant  span  that  Joe  had 
been  purchasing,  and  even  to  be  driven  by  him  down  to  his 
store  in  Burling  Slip,  or  into  Wall  street  at  "  change  hours." 

That  Joe  should  learn  any  business,  or  confine  himself  to 
hard  study,  he  did  not  think  necessary.  "  Joe  was  not  in  the 
best  health  ;  he  had  grown  fast,  was  pale,  rather  slender  in 
his  make  ;  his  health  was  the  great  thing."  And  Mr.  Foster 
sometimes  made  remarks  which  his  son  could  hear,  such  as — 
"  Young  men  in  Joe's  situation  mustn't  be  curbed  too  tight," 
or,  "Young  folks  must  enjoy  themselves;  if  they  don't  take 
pleasure  when  they're  young,  they  never  will."  However 
excellent  the  doctrines  might  have  been,  the  effect  of  them, 
under  the  circumstances,  was  to  make  Joe  feel  that  he  was 
"  all  correct."  He  was  twenty,  and  would  soon  be  master  of 
his  own  fortune. 

That  both  these  young  men  had  gone  further  in  what  they 
were  pleased  to  call  "  mere  wild  freaks,"  than  their  parents 
were  aware,  there  was  no  doubt.  Many  knew  it ;  some  of 
the  police  knew  it,  and  snugly  pocketed  their  hush-money. 
And  Evart  knew  it,  although  he  had  not  gone  with  them  as 
yet,  to  all  the  scenes  of  riot  and  evil  which  were  open  to 
them.  He  was  their  confident;  they  told  him  everything, 
"  glorying  in  their  shame,"  and  perhaps  without  design  were 
instilling  into  his  young  heart  drops  of  poison,  which  by 
degrees  would  make  callous  the  tender  sensibilities,  and  steal 
away  the  pure  affections,  and  turn  the  whole  natural  tide  of 
his  being  into  a  turbid,  polluted,  and  offensive  stream. 

They  had  wound  themselves  around  Evart's  heart  by  just 
such  fascinating  ties  as  youth  readily  yields  to.  They  were 
fond  of  him ;  of  naturally  kind  dispositions,  neither  mean  nor 
jealous,  nor  easily  irritated. 

The  boys  had  grown  up  together ;  played  with  each  other  in 
childhood,  and  had  been  almost  inseparable  companions 
even  to  that  hour.  A  little  older  than  Evart,  he  had  learned 
to  look  up  to  them,  and  without  doubt,  under  such  guides,  he 
was  in  a  fair  way  to  make  a  wreck  of  property,  health,  and 
character. 

If  Evart  had  any  suspicion  of  danger  until  the  events  of 
the  last  evening,  there  had  been  nothing  in  his  conduct  that 
manifested  it.  Pleasure,  doubtless,  had  been  the  one  object 
of  his  desire  and  aim,  and  he  had  followed  her  call  without  a 


At,ONE   ON    A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  189 

question ;  nor  was  he  conscious  how  far  he  had  already 
advanced  on  the  dangerous  ground,  until  he  hears  a  voico 
saying  to  him  "  beware — that  path  leads  down  to  hell. 
Shame  shall  be  the  promotion  of  fools." 

The  young  men  had  to  wait  some  time,  and  were  begin 
ning  to  be  impatient,  so  that  when  Evart  entered,  Joe 
Foster,  although  in  a  friendly  way,  began  to  rally  him  upon 
his  delay. 

"  Halloa,  my  good  fellow !  you  have  kept  us  waiting  so 
long,  I  didn't  know  but  you  thought  it  was  some  fellow  come 
a  dunning !" 

"  Please  excuse  me ;  I  fear  I  have  kept  you  too  long,  but 
mother  would  make  me  take  a  cup  of  coffee." 

"  All  right,  all  right,"  said  Tom  Lovell,  who  advanced  to 
give  him  his  hand  ;  "  you  know  our  business  is  not  in  general 
very  pressing,  there  is  nobody  waiting  for  us ;  and  so  we 
need  not  hurry  others.  How  do  you  feel  this  morning  ?" 

"Only  so  so." 

"  Why,  I  feel  like  a  lark,"  said  Joe  Foster.  "  You  see, 
Marston,  you  are  only  breaking  in ;  a  little  worried  with  the 
first  drive ;  you'll  get  over  that,  my  boy,  by  and  by ;  but 
where  is  Thornton  ?" 

"  I  presume,"  said  Evart,  "  he  has  had  his  breakfast  and 
off  long  ago.  He  is  all  for  business,  you  know." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow,  that,"  said  Lovell ;  "  how  he  flew  like 
lightning  before  you,  Evart,  and  sent  that  scamp  reeling 
among  the  crowd." 

"  Yes,  if  that  blow  had  struck  where  he  meant  it  should, 
my  boy,  he  would  have  marred  your  pretty  face  sadly ;  it 
was  a  lucky  thought  in  Thornton.  I  should  have  given  it  to 
him  though,  if  he  had  struck  you  ;  the  low  counter  jumper  !" 

"Oh,  well  Joe,  I  expect  I  deserved  to  have  been  punished; 
although  I  feel  grateful  to  Henry  for  his  interference ;  I  did 
not  act  like  a  gentleman,  I  expect ;  and  I  am  heartily  sorry 
for  the  whole  scrape.  It  was  not  much  to  our  credit." 

"  Halloa,  Evart  !  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  Joe  ;  only  when  we  are  in  the  wrong  it  is 
as  well  to  say  it,  especially  if  we  are  conscious  of  it." 

"  No  wrong  about  it ;  he  was  impudent  to  you,  and  you 
gave  him  as  good  as  he  sent.  No  wrong  about  that,  as  I 
take  it." 


190  TRUE  TO   THE  LAST  J    OB, 

"  Oh,  well,  perhaps  if  I  had  avoided  doing  wrong  in  the 
first  place ;  that  is,  if  I  had  acted  a  more  gentlemanly  part 
in  his  store  it  would  have  prevented  any  difficulty." 

"  Gentlemanly  part !  It  is  well  enough,  Evart,  when  you 
are  dealing  with  gentlemen  to  act  the  gentleman  yourself; 
but  with  such  low  scamps,  the  only  way  is  to  let  them  see 
that  you  know  what  their  value  is." 

"  Well,  Joe,  you  must  do  as  you  think  best ;  but  I  am  well 
satisfied  that  proper  deportment  on  my  part,  would  have 
saved  some  trouble  ;  at  least,  it  would  have  saved  me  a  great 
many  unpleasant  feelings." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !  Evart !  It's  all  fudge.  I  know  what  ails 
you  this  morning ;  you  was  a  little  high  last  night,  as  well 
as  the  rest  of  us.  That  champagne  was  a  little  too  much  for 
you,  and  as  I  said,  you  are  just  breaking  in  ;  you  feel  a  little 
down  this  morning — a  little  blue  like ;  a  glass  of  bitters  will 
set  all  right.  Come,  let's  go  to  the  '  Stone  Jug  ;'  I  feel  the 
want  of  a  little  something  myself.  What  do  you  say, 
Tom  ?" 

"  Just  as  you  please." 

"  Come,  Evart." 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you ;  I  had  rather  not ;  and  I  tell  you 
what  it  is,  boys,  I  think  we  ought  to  be  careful." 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha !  well  done  Evart !  If  that  ain't  what  the  old 
man  says  to  me,  sometimes :  '  Tom  you  must  be  careful.' 
What  has  come  over  Evart,  Joe  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing ;  but  he  feels,  as  I  said,  a  little  blue.  A  glass 
of  bitters,  I  know,  will  cure  him  ;  but  if  he  says  No,  I  am  not 
the  chap  to  urge  him.  Every  tub  must  stand  on  its  own 
bottom.  But  come,  Evart,  if  you  don't  want  any  bitters,  why, 
let  it  alone  then.  Let's  go  take  a  stroll  somewhere." 

Evart  did  not  wish  to  go,  but  as  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  have  a  free  talk  with  his  companions,  and  as  the  result  of 
it  might  be  a  severing  of  their  friendly  relations,  he  did  not 
think  it  proper  that  it  should  take  place  in  his  own  house  ; 
he  therefore  accepted  the  invitation  to  take  a  stroll.  Knowing 
pretty  well  in  what  direction  it  would  lead,  and  hoping 
thereby  to  gain  the  opportunity  he  desired.  Never  before 
had  the  views  and  feelings  of  his  friends  appeared  to  him  as 
they  now  did.  He  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  had  been 
heart  and  hand  with  them  ;  and  he  shuddered  to  think  how 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         191 

near  the  edge  of  a  yawning  gulf  he  had  been  standing. 
What  course  he  should  pursue  he  could  not  then  say  ;  but 
he  must  fly  from  a  danger  to  which  his  eyes  had  been  opened. 

After  his  companions  had  satisfied  themselves  at  the  bar, 
one  of  them  proposed  that  they  should  go  into  the  billiard 
saloon  and  have  a  game. 

"  I  want  you  first  to  go  with  me  into  a  room  where  we  can 
have  a  little  private  talk." 

They  looked  significantly  at  each  other,  but  assented  to  his 
proposition.  And  soon  they  were  all  again  seated  together. 

"  Now,  I  suppose,  boys,  you  will  think  it  a  little  strange 
that  I  should  turn  so  short  a  corner,  and  begin  without  any 
previous  notice,  to  denounce  what  I  have  hitherto  assented 
to,  as  all  right  and  proper.  Yet,  so  it  is.  I  feel  that  we 
three — I  say  nothing  of  the  rest  of  the  fellows,  we  have  been 
most  together— always  together ;  we  have  never  had  any  dif 
ficulty  with  each  other,  but  I  am  satisfied  we  are  not  doing 
one  another  any  good.  We  are  neither  helping  each  other 
to  be  any  wiser  or  better.  I  am  in  earnest,  Joe." 

"  I  believe  y.ou  are,  Evart,  and  that  makes  me  laugh. 
Excuse  me,  I'll  try  to  hold  in." 

Evart  did  not  join  in  the  laugh  which  both  his  com 
panions  indulged,  but  waited  patiently  until  they  had  satis 
fied  their  mirth. 

"  Go  on  now,  Evart.  Tom  and  I  have  had  our  laugh  out ; 
we  will  be  sober  as  deacons." 

"  I  say  we  not  only  are  doing  each  other  no  good,  but  we 
are  encouraging  one  another  in  a  course  that  must  end  in  the 
ruin  of  our  character,  our  property,  and  our  health.  How 
long  since  was  it  that  you  and  I  followed  Tom  Blauvelt  to 
the  grave?  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  brought  him 
there;  and  in  what  condition  did  we  see  Bill  Kenzer  but  yes 
terday  !  the  laughing-stock  of  the  off-scouring  of  the  city. 
And  we  can  well  remember  when  he  stood  full  as  fair  as  we 
do  now.  He  is  now  bankrupt  in  property,  the  torment  of 
his  mother,  and  a  terror  to  all  the  family  ! 

"  These  are  cases  right  among  us  of  those  with  whom  our 
families  are  intimate;  and  how  long  will  it  be  if,  young  as  we 
now  are,  we  give  full  rein  to  our  passions,  before  we  too  shall 
be  the  scoff  and  by-word  of  the  city !  But  that  is  not  the 
worst  of  it." 


192  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

"  What !  not  got  to  the  worst  yet,  Evart  ?  You  ain't  a 
going  to  preach  a  sermon,  I  hope,  from  the  text  you  have 
given  out." 

Evart  felt  the  flush  burning  his  cheek ;  he  understood  now 
as  never  before,  that  ties  of  friendship  formed  in  the  commis 
sion  of  evil,  are  but  slender  indeed.  These  two  young  men 
whom  he  had  regarded  almost  as  brothers,  were  ready  now, 
because  he  took  a  manly  stand  and  held  up  to  their  view  the 
dangers  to  which  they  and  he  were  mutually  exposed,  to  treat 
him  with  ridicule  and  contempt. 

It  was  in  his  mind  to  have  pointed  them  to  the  vengeance 
of  an  angry  God.  He  had  been  thinking  of  it  himself,  and 
it  had  taken  a  strong  hold  of  his  feelings ;  but  his  judgment 
told  him,  "  that  was  a  subject  with  which  he  was  himself  as 
yet  too  little  acquainted,  and  whatever  effect  it  might  eventu 
ally  have  upon  his  own  heart  and  conduct,  there  was  no  pros 
pect  that  it  would  meet  with  aught  else  than  ridicule  from 
those  he  was  addressing;  he  would  not,  therefore,  venture 
upon  such  an  argument."  He  was  conscious,  however,  that 
he  did  not  deserve  their  continued  sneer. 

"  You  may  not  value  my  friendship,  either  of  you,  and  yet 
we  have  been  too  long  intimate  as  friends  for  me  to  retaliate 
and  violently  sunder  the  ties  which  bind  us.  I  have  not  laid 
any  charge  against  either  of  you  that  I  do  not  bring  against 
myself,  but  I  have  spoken  from  the  fullness  of  my  heart.  I  am, 
resolved  to  change  my  course  of  life,  and  for  your  own  sakes, 
as  well  as  mine,  I  entreat  you  not  to  trifle  with  the  subject, 
because  I  am  a  little  younger  than  you  are,  not  to  despise 
my  warning." 

Tom  Lovell  was  evidently  touched  with  this  last  address  of 
Evart.  He  had  reasons  too  for  not  wishing  to  break  with 
Evart.  He  had  been  on  very  intimate  terms  with  the  family, 
and  had  become  somewhat  interested  in  Evart's  sister.  Tom 
was  her  partner  generally  in  the  social  dance,  and  on  more 
public  occasions,  and  was  ever  ready  to  wait  upon  her  when 
an  opportunity  offered.  He  was  of  fine  personal  appearance, 
and  had  an  easy  disposition,  perhaps  too  easy  for  his  own 
good,  and  could  make  himself  quite  agreeable  when  so  dis 
posed.  Nothing  perhaps  had  been  thought  of  his  little  at 
tentions  by  Mrs.  Marston  or  Evart,  nor  may  Tom  himself 
have  considered  the  subject  seriously;  and  yet,  when  there 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         193 

was  a  probability  of  any  obstruction  being  thrown  in  the  way 
of  his  frequent  visits  there,  by  a  severing  of  friendly  relations 
with  his  companion,  it  is  quite  possible  he  felt  a  reluctance 
on  that  account  to  proceed  to  extremities. 

Joe  Foster,  however,  had  no  such  tie  to  his  young  friend. 
The  society  of  ladies  he  never  fancied,  and  that  wholesome 
restraint  upon  a  young  man  of  property,  with  every  oppor 
tunity  to  indulge  his  own  will,  was  wanting.  Joe,  likewise, 
as  has  been  said,  was  the  elder  of  the  three  ;  perhaps  on  that 
account  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  yielding ;  he  was  the 
first  to  speak. 

"  I  may  understand  then,  Marston,  that  you  wish  to  cut 

us  ?" The  oath  he  swore  too  was  terrible  to  be  repeated.  "  I 

am  not  the  man  to  blubber  over  an  old  friend  who  tells  me 
he  don't  want  my  company  any  longer,  and  I  am  not  to  be 
crowed  into  what  you  call  a  right  way,  by  so  young  a  chick 
of  the  roost  as  you  are  ;  you  have  no  doubt  taken  your  lesson 
from  that  young  scapegrace  from  New  England,  and  I  sup 
pose  he  has  '  lifted  up  his  warning  voice  against  us,'  and  tried 
to  persuade  you  that  we  are  a  set  of  reprobates,  who  will  pro 
bably  lead  you  to  the  gallows,  or  somewhere  else,  and  you 
have  been  fool  enough  to  listen  to  him.  But  you  can  tell 
him  for  me,  that  Joe  Foster  would  not  take  one  step  out  of 
that  track  which  seems  to  him  best,  for  all  the  puling  saints 
between  here  and  Nova  Scotia — no  not  T !" 

"  Joe  Foster,  I  have  but  one  word  more  to  say,  and  that  is, 
'  You  utterly  misunderstand  the  character  of  Henry  Thorn 
ton.  He  is  poor,  and  is  working  to  support  himself,  but  he 
is  a  gentleman  in  heart  and  conduct ;  he  is  a  noble,  spirited, 
upright,  manly  fellow — above  all  that  is  little  or  mean.  Never 
has  he  opened  his  lips  to  me  in  dispraise  of  any  friend  of 
mine,  and  I  only  wish  that  you  and  I  were  in  as  fair  a  way  to 
make  true  men  of  ourselves  as  he  is!" 

Joe  now  broke  out  into  a  violent  abuse,  not  of  any  one  in 
particular,  but  of  all  who  pretended  to  anything  like  "  extra 
ordinary  goodness,"  denouncing  them  as  a  pack  of  liars  and 
hypocrites,  and  all  that  was  mean  and  contemptible.  Evart 
made  no  reply,  but  Tom  Lovell  took  Joe  by  the  arm  and 
tried  to  pacify  him — he  hoped  to  get  matters  all  righted  again 

"  Come,  Joe,  where's  the  use  of  all  this  palaver.  Hush  up 
man  ;  you  and  I  arid  Evart  will  be  good  friends  yet.  Why, 

9 


194:  TRUE   TO   THE   LA8T. 

can't  a  fellow  express  his  mind  ?  but  you  make  such  a  blus 
ter  about  it !  Come,  let  us  go  all  of  us,  and  have  a  game  of 
billiards ;  no  harm  in  that,  is  there,  Evart  ?  No  harm  in 
knocking  about  a  few  balls  about  over  a  long  table  !  Come 
— I  say,  Joe — stop  your  noise,  and  hear  to  reason — come,  let 
us  shake  hands — Evart  give  us  your  hand." 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Tom." 

Joe  Foster,  too,  held  out  his  hand,  and  as  Evart  grasped  it 
he  said, 

"  Each  tub  on  its  own  bottom,  Evart ;  mind  that." 

"  You  need  not  fear,  Joe,  that  I  shall  presume  to  give  you 
advice  after  this.  I  have  only  done  what  my  feelings  as  a 
friend  have  dictated.  Hereafter  you  will  find  me  ever  ready  to 
do  you  a  good  turn  if  you  should  request  it,  as  ready  as  ever, 
and  if  I  cannot  unite  with  you  in  such  pursuits  as  I  think 
dangerous,  it  will  not  be  that  I  think  less  of  you,  or  myself  to 
be  better  than  you,  but  because  my  judgment  tells  me,  it  is 
time  to  take  a  stand  against  them." 

"  Enough  said,  Evart — enough  said — our  roads  do  not  run 
together  as  they  have ;  I  see  that ;  but  it  can't  be  helped, 
so  good  bye." 

And  thus  they  parted  !  Whether  his  two  companions  went 
to  the  game  which  had  been  proposed,  he  knew  not;  as  he 
passed  through  the  bar-room  he  heard  Joe  say  "  Come,  Tom, 
let's  have  a  glass  of  London  particular,  first."  Evart  tarried 
not,  for  he  wished  to  get  to  his  home,  he  had  much  to  think 
of,  and  he  must  be  alone. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

OF  all  the  dark  spots  in  Henry's  short  life  to  which  he 
could  now  look  back,  not  one  appeared  so  shrouded  in  gloom 
as  the  present. 

His  heart  drooped  sadly  as  he  walked  towards  his  resting- 
place  for  the  night — home  he  could  not  call  it — although  he 
had  been  treated  with  much  kindness  there,  yet  he  was  well 
aware  that  in  a  city  where  every  article  of  food  must  be  paid 
for,  and  the  shelter,  however  poor,  or  small,  must  be  procured 
at  much  cost,  he  could  only  expect  to  remain  so  long  as  he 
could  pay  the  small  charge  which  was  made  for  his  weekly 
board.  Almost  immediately  after  supper,  he  retired  to  his 
little  attic  room ;  he  must  collect  his  thoughts,  and  prepare 
for  what  was  before  him. 

He  had  not  only  lost  his  situation  and  means  of  support, 
but  he  had  lost  it  under  circumstances  that  would  operate 
most  powerfully  against  his  attempts  to  procure  another — for 
how  could  he  refer  to  those  who  had  just  dismissed  him,  for 
testimonials  of  character.  Messrs.  Sharp  &  Co.  were,  no 
doubt,  displeased  with  him.  What  had  been  told  them  by 
their  head  salesman,  he  knew  not;  but,  doubtless,  he  had 
made  representations  of  the  affair  which  placed  him  in  a  very 
nnfavorable  position.  To  them,  therefore,  he  could  not  refer. 
And  the  gentlemen  who  had  procured  that  situation  for  him, 
knew  nothing  but  at  second-hand ;  their  opinion,  indeed,  was 
favorable ;  but  he  had  been  upon  probation,  and  found  want 
ing,  and  what  could  they  now  say? 

That  he  had  not  done  wrong  he  felt  conscious,  and  that  he 
had  faithfully  served  his  employers  to  the  extent  of  his 
abilities ;  but,  in  an  hour  of  such  extremity,  it  requires  strong 
faith  to  derive  effectual  consolation  from  such  a  source. 

Tired,  at  length,  of  looking  in  a  direction  where  no  light 
was  to  be  seen,  he  turned  to  another  point  in  his  situation 
not  much  more  satisfactory,  and  that  was  the  condition  of  his 
finances.  He  had  on  hand,  besides  what  Mr.  Sharp  had  paid 
him,  twelve  dollars — -in  all,  nineteen  dollars.  Evart,  indeed, 

195 


196  TKTTE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

was  still  indebted  for  the  twenty  dollars  he  had  borrowed ;  but 
no  doubt  Evart  had  forgotten  it.  After  all  the  kindness  he 
had  received  at  his  house,  he  could  not  think  of  asking  for  it. 

The  most  unpleasant  circumstance  of  all  was  the  unsettled 
account  from  Messrs.  W.  &  Co.,  which  Mr.  Sharp  had  handed 
to  him.  He  had  supposed  the  suit  of  clothes  were  a  present 
from  Evart ;  and  yet  it  had  been  his  purpose,  so  soon  as  he 
was  able,  to  refund  the  cost.  "  He  did  not  wish  them  as  a 
gift,  but  how  could  he  now  discharge  the  debt  ?"  One  con 
clusion,  however,  he  soon  came  to,  and  that  was  to  be  open 
and  above-board  in  all  such  matters.  "  The  debt  had  been 
contracted  in  opposition  to  his  will,  and  had  he  been  aware 
of  all  the  circumstances,  he  would  most  firmly  have  resisted 
the  purchase  ;  but  as  it  was  now  done ;  he  would  go  at  once 
to  Messrs.  W.  &  Co.,  and  tell  them,  as  far  as  he  could,  how  it 
had  happened  and  how  he  was  situated,  and  pay  them  what 
he  had,  reserving,  with  their  consent,  a  few  dollars  to  enable 
him  to  sustain  himself  for  a  week  or  so."  Work,  of  some 
sort,  he  believed  he  should  be  able  to  find,  even  if  it  was  that 
of  the  most  menial  kind. 

How  soon  will  the  mind  rise  above  the  gloom  which  cir 
cumstances  may  have  thrown  around  it,  when  supported  by 
a  consciousness  of  doing  right.  Henry's  heart  did  not  up 
braid  him  :  "  he  might  have  erred  in  judgment,  but  he  hoped 
to  grow  wiser  by  every  new  experience."  He  still  retained 
his  confidence  in  Evart ;  he  believed  in  his  friendship  never 
more  firmly  than  at  that  moment ;  and  he  felt  assured  that 
the  trial  he  was  now  suffering  on  Evart's  account,  had  only 
resulted  from  a  want  of  thought:  "Always  blessed  with  abun 
dance  himself,  he  could  not  realize  what  inconvenience  he, 
Henry,  might  suffer  for  the  want  of  that  which  he  had  loaned 
him." 

He  had  some  faint  hope,  too,  "  that  Evart  had  come  to  a 
better  mind ;  that  he  meant  to  change  his  course  of  life." 
Ah !  had  he  then  known  that  the  few  words  he  had  spoken 
to  his  friend  had  taken  a  deep  hold  upon  his  heart;  that 
the  steadfast,  correct,  and  pure  course  which  he  had  main 
tained,  was  then  doing  its  silent  but  sure  work ;  and  that  the 
little  leaf  which,  like  a  talisman,  had  charmed  his  own  heart 
to  rest,  and  led  him  to  seek  for  guidance  to  a  sure  and  ever 
lasting  Friend,  was  also  operating  upon  the  mind  of  Evart, 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         197 

and  waking  up  resolves,  that  if  carried  out  would  bear  him 
away  from  the  dangers  to  which  he  was  exposed,  to  a  safe  and 
sure  path !  Could  he  at  that  moment  have  seen  that  friend 
whom  he  had  so  nobly  tried  to  save  from  ruin,  sitting  in 
silence  with  that  little  heavenly  messenger  in  his  hand,  pon 
dering,  with  intense  interest,  its  rich  and  clear  instructions ! 
How  his  heart  would  have  leaped  for  joy,  and  every  shadow 
on  his  path  been  dissipated ! 

And  now,  too,  he  has  some  thoughts  which  disconnect  him 
with  present  scenes,  and  lead  him  into  the  past.  ''  He  was 
confident  that  he  had  seen  that  very  day,  and  but  a  few  hours 
since,  her  whose  image  was  ever  present  with  him,  like  another 
self!  Why  was  she  here?  and  where?  And  would  it  an 
swer  for  him,  even  if  he  should  discover  the  place  of  her 
abode,  to  call  upon  her  ?  and  would  she  wish  to  see  him  ? 
Might  not  her  circumstances,  by  possibility,  have  changed ! 

She  was,  no  doubt,  the  same  kind,  confiding  Louise,  but" 

It  were  vain  to  follow  him  through  all  the  maze  in  which  his 
thoughts  were  wandering.  A  tap  upon  the  door  has  aroused 
him  from  his  reverie,  and  with  haste  he  opens  it. 

"A  gentleman  has  called  to  see  you  ;  he  is  in  the  best  room 
below." 

And  Henry,  without  reply,  goes  at  once  below,  and,  to  his 
utter  surprise,  was  accosted  as  he  entered  the  room  by  Mr. 
Belden. 

"  How  are  you — how  are  you  ?  Thought  T  would  just  run 
up  this  evening  and  see  you  a  moment.  How  do  you 
feel  ?" 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Belden ;  I  thank  you  very  much  for 
calling,  it  is  so  good  to  see  a  friend !" 

"  That's  what  I  thought.  Hard  world,  aint  it  ? — plaguy 
hard — full  of  tough,  grinding  sinners,  without  any  bowels 
and  mercies!" 

"There  are  a  great  many  kind  people,  though,  for  all." 

"  Some — some  few,  here  and  there — mighty  scarce.  But 
how  do  you  feel  ?  Ain't  down-hearted,  I  hope.  Keep  up 
your  pluck:  when  that's  gone  a  man's  done  for;  he'll  go 
down  stream,  belly  up,  like  a  dead  fish  !  The  world  aint  to 
an  end  yet,  and  there's  more  places  besides  the  very  respect 
able  establishment  of  Messrs.  Sharp,  Catchern  &  Co." 

"Yes,  sir,  no  doubt;  but  the  difficulty  with  me  will  he  aa 
to  a  reference ;  those  to  whom  I  may  apply  will  wish  to  know 


198  TKUE  TO   THE   LAST  ;    OK, 

where  I  last  lived,  and  why  I  left ;  and  should  they  go  to  Mr. 
Sharp,  I  know  not  what  he  would  say  to  them." 

"  1  know,  I  know.  It  looks  blue.  I  don't  see  clear  how 
you'll  manage  it ;  but  may  be  there'll  be  some  way — I  always 
found  there  was  some  way ;  it  wasn't  always  the  way  I  was 
trying  to  find,  but  a  kind  of  cross-road.  You'll  come  across 
something  or  somebody,  only  keep  up  your  pluck.  How  is 
it  about  means  ?  short,  aint  you  ?" 

"Oh,  thank  you,  sir ;  I  shall  have  enough  to  last  me  a 
week  or  two." 

"That  all !  And  I  suppose  you  mean  it  will  carry  you  a 
week  or  so  on  the  pinching  plan  ?  It  will  never  do,  my 
young  fellow ;  your  head  will  be  pinched  enough,  contriving 
ways  and  means  to  get  a  living  in  this  scrambling,  tearing, 
grinding  world,  without  pinching  anywhere  else.  As  I  have 
told  you  before,  good  fodder — and  plenty  of  it — can't  be  dis 
pensed  with,  nohow,  and  make  a  live  of  it.  Here  now" 

And  Mr.  Belden,  in  his  quick  way,  had  his  pocket-book 
out,  and  had  opened  it  and  taken  out  some  bills,  before  Henry 
was  aware  of  his  design. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Belden  ;  yon  are  very  good  ;  I  thank  you, 
most  heartily,  but  I  cannot  take  it.  I  have  money." 

"  It's  only  a  loan  !" 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  thank  you ;  I  feel  your  kindness  more  than  I 
can  tell  you ;  but  indeed  I  can  do  without — indeed  I  can.'' 

"Without  pinching?  I  am  afraid  you  can't  now!  You 
see,  I  don't  go  it  large  myself;  small  salary;  interest  and 
mortgage,  and  all  that,  you  know,  to  pay,  as  I  have  told  you ; 
but  I  always  keep  a  little  on  hand,  in  case  of  a  storm,  or 
a  blow-up,  or  something  of  the  kind  :  a  fellow  never  knows 
what's  coming,  especially  among  some  folks.  You  see,  I  aint 
the  best-natured  that  ever  was  !  Sometimes  everthing  looks 
cross-grained — kind  of  muggy,  mussy,  dirty  !  I  feel  sharp, 
snappish ;  and  when  they  poke  me  too  hard  in  the  ribs  at 
such  times,  you  see,  I  kick ;  can't  stand  it  nohow  ;  if  the 
world  comes  to, an  end,  can't  help  it;  won't  be  poked.  I'll 
do  my  work  right  and  tight ;  they  shan't  have  no  fault  to 
find  about  that ;  I  can  show  as  neat  work  and  as  correct  work 
as  the  best  in  the  city,  I  don't  care  where  they  are.  But  if 
they  poke  too  hard,  I  kick — can't  help  it.  You'd  better  take 
a  little,  though ;  you'll  feel  more  whole-hearted ;  there's 
nothing  like  a  lean  purse  to  give  a  man  the  heart-beat,  and 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         199 

make  him  feel  all  gone,  like.  At  any  rate,  you'll  promise 
me,  if  things  begin  to  tighten  up,  you'll  let  me  know ;  you 
will  now,  won't  you  ?" 

"  I  will,  Mr.  Belden,  certainly,  if  it  should  come  to  that — 
but  whether  I  do  so  or  not,  I  shall  never  forget  your  kind 
ness.  I  am  sure  I  have  never  done  anything  for  you  to  merit 
it." 

"  That's  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter  at  all,  my  dear  fel 
low.  You  see,  I  don't  like  disturbances.  I've  had  enough  of 
them  in  my  day.  I  like  to  be  quiet — and  have  my  mind 
at  rest." 

I  couldn't,  you  see,  go  home  and  take  my  supper.  I  like  a 
good  hearty  supper,  a  man  sleeps  the  better  for  it — /  do ;  and 
then  go  to  bed,  and  be  a  thinking  of  you  all  alone  and — rot 
it  all." 

Mr.  Belden  got  somewhat  confused  in  his  ideas,  or  some 
thing  else  just  then  ailed  him,  for  he  had  to  pause  and  cough 
several  times,  and  was  very  restless  in  his  chair ;  at  length  he 
sprang  up  quickly. 

"  Well,  I  must  go ;  mind — you  remember — don't  give  in, 
brace  up,  and  when  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  just  throw 
a  line  into  the  office,  addressed  to  Joe  Belden.  Now  you  hear ! 
I  aint  much,  but  you  know  it's  good  to  have  some  one  to  call 
on,  if  it  is  only  to  let  out  the  grievance.  Trouble  all  kept  in, 
is  like  wind  on  the  stomach,  it's  colicky — very — good-bye." 

Henry  could  only  grasp  in  silence,  the  hand  of  the  kind- 
hearted  man ;  but  Mr.  Belden  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with 
his  silent  adieu.  Perhaps  he  saw  tokens  which  told  him  with 
out  words,  that  his  visit  had  been  kindly  taken. 

And  now,  Henry  after  having  made  all  his  plans  so  far  as 
he  could,  in  his  present  confused  state  of  mind,  sat  quietly 
down  to  read  a  few  passages  from  those  heavenly  instructions 
to  which  he  daily  resorted.  A  calm,  like  the  stillness  of  a 
summer  sunset,  stole  over  him,  his  courage  began  to  revive — 
light  streaks  began  to  shoot  up  from  his  horizon,  the  dark 
clouds  were  tinged,  and  their  aspect  changed.  And  as  one 
beneath  his  father's  roof  has  lost  all  care  and  is  at  rest ;  so 
he  laid  him  down  in  peace  and  slept. 

It  was  about  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  that  he  entered 
the  clothing  establishment  of  Messrs.  W.  &  Co.,  with  the  bill 
which  they  had  sent  him  in  his  hand.  He  recognized  at 


200  TRUE  TO   THE  LAST  ;   OK, 

once  the  gentleman  who  had  waited  upon  Evart  and  himself. 
It  was  the  elder  partner  of  the  concern,  a  short  man,  neatly 
dressed,  with  a  pleasant  countenance,  and  easy  manners.  And 
very  soon  the  gentleman  recognized  him,  although  they  had 
not  met  since  the  goods  were  purchased. 

Henry  stated  his  business  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  and 
although  he  endeavored  not  to  throw  any  blame  upon  Evart,  he 
was  obliged  to  acknowledge,  in  some  measure,  that  his  receipt 
of  the  bill  was  somewhat  unexpected. 

"  I  was  aware  of  that,"  said  the  gentleman ;  "  Mr.  Marston 
mentioned  to  me  at  the  time  that  he  would  see  the  bill  paid, 
although  I  had  charged  them  to  you ;  and  when  I  made  out  his 
account  lately,  he  requested  me  to  have  the  amount  put  in 
and  sent  altogether  to  his  guardian. 

"  It  happened,  howerer,  that  our  book-keeper  in  making  out 
the  account  put  your  bill  in  at  the  bottom  as  a  separate 
item,  as  articles  purchased  by  you  and  to  be  paid  for  by  Mr. 
Marston.  But  the  old  gentleman  would  not  pay  it;  you  see, 
the  trouble  is,  that  young  Mr.  Marston  has  of  late  become 
rather  careless  in  spending  money,  and  I  fear  is  beginning  to 
make  an  improper  use  of  it,  and  has  perhaps  drawn  largely  ; 
more  so  than  his  allowance  will  warrant.  I  am  sorry  for  it, 
as  I  have  thought  him  likely  to  turn  out  well ;  he  has  seemed 
to  me  quite  moderate  for  a  young  man  of  property,  but  I 
expect  he  is  too  intimate  with  some  who  are  no  better  than 
they  should  be. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  has  happened  so.  I  have  said  nothing  to 
Mr.  Marston  about  it,  but  as  one  of  the  clerks  told  me  that 
you  were  living  with  Sharp  &  Co.,  I  ordered  him  to  leave  the 
bill  at  their  store,  that  you  might  be  informed  how  it  was,  as 
you  might  wish  to  see  Mr.  Marston  yourself  about  it.  I  have 
no  doubt  he  will  yet  pay  it." 

"  I  should  much  prefer  to  pay  it  myself,  sir,  and  should 
be  very  sorry  that  Mr.  Marston  should  know  anything  about 
it.  I  ought  at  the  time  to  have  been  more  decided,  and  not 
allowed  him  to  purchase  the  clothes.  He  did  it,  however, 
from  the  kindest  feelings,  and  I  have  do  doubt,  with  the  most 
honorable  intentions.  But,  sir,  I  cannot  pay  you  all  now. 
Here  is  all  the  money  I  have." 

And  Henry  took  out  his  nineteen  dollars  and  handed  it  to 
the  gentleman. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         201 

"  It  is  all  I  have  got,  and  if  you  could  allow  me  to  retain 
five  dollars  of  it,  until  I  get  a  situation,  I  should  be  very  thank 
ful.  It  would  pay  ray  board  for  a  couple  of  weeks.  But  1 
leave  that  entirely  with  yourself." 

"  Are  you  not  living  with  Sharp  &  Catchem  ?" 

"  Not  now,  sir." 

"  When  did  you  leave  ?" 

"  Yesterday,  sir.  Mr.  Sharp  dismissed  me  yesterday  after 
noon." 

"  Did  he  give  you  the  reason  for  it  ?" 

"  He  did  not,  sir ;  but  I  apprehend  the  reason  was,  that  I 
interfered  to  protect  my  friend,  Evart  Marston,  from  a  violent 
attack  made  upon  him  by  Mr.  Puffem,  the  head  clerk  of  Mr. 
Sharp." 

And  then  Henry  related  the  particulars  of  the  affair,  and 
his  orfly  motive  for  interfering  as  he  did. 

"  Does  Marston  know  that  you  have  lost  your  situation  in 
consequence  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  sir !  I  do  not  wish  him  to  know  it.  I  think  he  is 
heartily  sorry  for  the  whole  of  his  part  in  it,  and  I  hope  it 
may  do  him  good.  I  should  be  sorry  to  add  to  his  present 
unpleasant  feelings." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  true  friend  of  Marston,  at  any  rate." 

"  He  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  sir.  I  know  he  has  a  noble 
spirit,  and  if  he  would  only  abandon  some  of  his  companions 
it  would  be  a  great  thing  for  him." 

"  Well ;  now  my  young  friend,  I  cannot  take  this  money 
under  all  these  circumstances." 

Handing  it  at  the  same  time  back  to  Henry,  who  looked 
quite  mortified  and  down-cast;  judging  of  course,  that  so 
small  a  part  was  not  acceptable. 

"You  will  probably  find  that  it  will  take  a  longer  time  than 
you  now  anticipate  to  get  a  situation.  You  are  not  known  here, 
it  seems;  and  the  fact  of  being  dismissed  by  Mr.  Sharp  will 
prevent  you  from  referring  persons  to  him,  and  that  will  make 
it  hard  for  you.  No,  no,  keep  your  money  ;  we  are  not  afraid 
about  our  bill ;  I  will  answer  tor  it  you  will  pay  it  one  of 
these  days,  only  keep  up  a  good  heart."  And  the  gentleman, 
as  he  said  this,  put  his  hand  on  Henry's  shoulder.  "  You 
will  find  something  to  do  after  a  while,  and  you  can  pay  this 
bill  just  when  it  suits  your  own  convenience  ;  and  I  promise 

9* 


202  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  \   OR, 

you  not  a  word  shall  be  said  to  Marston  about  it ;  will  that 
answer  you  ?" 

It  was  not  possible  for  Henry  to  reply.  The  return  of  his 
money  so  unexpectedy ;  the  kind  manner  and  the  kind  words 
addressed  to  him,  under  such  circumstances,  were  too  much 
for  his  excited  feelings.  He  was  about,  however,  after  a  few 
moments'  silence,  to  say  something  in  return,  when  a  gentle 
man,  who,  it  seems,  had  been  a  witness  of  the  interview, 
although  unnoticed  by  Henry,  arose  from  his  seat,  not  far 
from  where  Mr.  W.  and  Henry  were  standing,  and  advanced 
towards  them.  He  was  tall  of  stature,  of  a  serious  cast  of 
countenance,  and  with  a  peculiarly  penetrating  eye ;  appar 
ently  not  yet  of  middle  age. 

"  Mr.  W.,  does  this  young  man  want  a  situation  ?" 

"  I  presume  so,  Mr.  Blenham." 

"  I  do,  sir,"  said  Henry,  answering  promptly. 

"You  have  been  living,  you  say,  with  Messrs.  Sharp, 
Catchem,  &  Co.  ?" 

"  I  have,  sir ;"  and  then  Henry  repeated  what  he  had 
already  told  Mr.  W.  of  the  circumstances  under  which  he 
had  left,  while  the  gentleman  kept  his  eye  keenly  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  And  the  trouble  is,"  said  Mr.  W.,  "  that  he  will  not  be 
able  to  refer  to  those  gentlemen,  and  he  has  lived  nowhere 
else  in  the  city." 

"  I  am  in  want  of  a  person  of  your  age  ;  would  you  have 
any  objections  to  go  with  me  to  Messrs.  Sharp,  Catchem, 
&  Co.  ?  I  know  Mr.  Sharp  pretty  well,  and  shall  be  able,  no 
doubt,  to  ascertain  what  the  difficulty  is,  and  if  there  is  no 
thing  else  beyond  what  you  suppose  to  be  the  cause  why 
you  have  been  dismissed,  perhaps  we  can  make  an  arrange 
ment  together." 

"  I  know  of  nothing  else,  sir,  and  have  no  objections  what 
ever  to  go  there  with  you." 

As  Henry  was  about  to  follow  Mr.  Blenham  from  the  store, 
Mr.  W.  took  him  by  the  arm,  and,  in  a  low  voice,  said — 

"Mr.  Blenham  is  a  partner  in  a  very  wealthy  house  in  the 
China  trade ;  a  fine  man.  You  will  have  a  good  chance  to 
do  well  if  you  please  him.  Keep  up  a  good  heart ;  be  open 
and  above  board  with  him." 

"  I  will,  sir." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         203 

Mr.  Sharp  seemed  somewhat  surprised  to  see  Henry  enter 
his  store  in  such  company,  but  he  was  too  much  occupied  in 
obsequious  attentions  to  the  gentleman  by  whose  side  Henry 
was  (Mr.  Blenham  was  a  bank  director)  to  take  particular 
notice  of  him.  Mr.  Blenham  informed  Mr.  Sharp  that  he 
would  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  him  in  private,  and  imme 
diately  the  former  gentleman  and  his  protegd  were  conducted 
to  the  farther  part  of  the  store. 

"  This  young  man  has  been  living  with  you,  he  tells  me." 

"  Yes,  sir,  he  has,  some  months." 

"  And  you  dismissed  him,  I  understand." 

"  I  did,  sir." 

"  As  I  am  somewhat  interested  in  the  matter,  may  I  ask 
•what  were  your  reasons  for  so  doing  ?" 

"  Why,  sir — why,  sir — we  are  not  in  the  habit  of  giving 
special  reasons  any  time  we  dismiss  a  clerk,  at  least  not  to 
them  ;  we  think  it  enough  that  they  do  not  answer  our  turn. 
I  say,  in  general  we  do  not." 

"But  you  know,  Mr.  Sharp  a  young  man  situated  as  this 
young  gentleman  is,  has  no  means  of  sustaining  himself  with 
out  a  character,  and  that  can  only  be  properly  obtained  from 
those  who  have  employed  him." 

"  True,  sir,  true  ;  and  I  gave  him  warning  some  time  ago, 
that  if  he  was  not  more  particular  about  his  associates  I  could 
not  keep  him." 

Henry  had  informed  Mr.  Blenhara  of  this  also. 

"Are  you  sure,  Mr.  Sharp,  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
associating  with  improper  persons,  or  sought  their  company  ?" 

Mr.  Sharp  then  went  into  a  detail  of  all  he  had  seen  and 
heard,  with  a  particular  account  of  the  affray  in  which  Henry 
had  mingled,  and  taken,  as  Mr.  Sharp  said,  such  a  disgraceful 
part. 

Mr.  Blenham  listened  to  him  very  patiently  through  the 
whole  narration,  during  which  Henry  had  to  hear  many 
things  which  were  quite  untrue  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
and  very  different  from  the  representation  of  the  affair  which 
he  had  made  to  Mr.  Blenham ;  and  tried  once  or  twice  to 
correct  the  statement,  but  was  silenced  by  Mr.  Sharp  with  a 
very  indignant  frown. 

When  Mr.  Sharp  had  concluded,  Mr.  Blenham  very  calmly 
asked — > 


204  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST;   OR, 

"  And  is  this  all,  Mr.  Sharp,  which  you  have  against  this 
young  man  ?" 

"  All,  sir !  I  think  you  will  say,  Mr.  Blenham — put  it  to 
your  own  case — it  is  quite  enough." 

"  It  might  be,  Mr.  Slurp,  if  the  statement  was  correct. 
But  allow  me  to  tell  you  that  I  was  accidentally  a  witness  of 
the  whole  scene."  Henry  looked  at  Mr.  Blenham  with  amaze 
ment.  "  I  saw  every  motion  of  this  young  man,  and  was  one 
that  prevented  your  head  clerk  from  venting  his  rage  upon 
him.  However  much  his  friend  may  have  been  in  the  wrong, 
this  youth  did  nothing  for  which  he  deserves  any  blame  ;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  endeavored  to  prevent  evil  ;  and  finally  in 
duced  his  friend  to  depart  from  the  disgraceful  melee ;  and  I 
am  very  glad,  Mr.  Sharp,  that  I  happened  to  be  there.  You 
and  I  both  know,  sir,  what  it  is  to  begin  at  the  very  beginning 
ourselves  ;  and  that  an  unfriended  youth,  with  a  stigma  upon 
his  character,  is,  in  such  a  city  as  this,  very  unpleasantly  and 
even  dangerously  situated." 

"  Certainly,  sir,  certainly  Mr.  Blenham,  I  am  aware  of  that ; 
and  I  would  be  the  last  person  to  injure  any  one,  especially 
a  youth.  I  certainly  have  nothing  against  him  personally, 
and  if  he  will  only  make  up  matters  with  Mr.  Puffem,  why — 
I — I — would  really  say — I  have  no  objections — no  objections 
at  all  to  receive  him  back.  There  are,  indeed,  several  appli 
cations — but" 

'•  Oh,  well,  sir,  it  was  not  for  that  object  we  called.  I  be 
lieve  it  would  not  be  best  under  the  circumstances.  I  com 
prehend  the  case  now ;  good  morning,  Mr.  Sharp." 

'•  Good  morning,  sir." 

And  Mr.  Sharp  walked  rapidly  back  to  his  place  behind  the 
counter,  casting,  at  the  same  time,  some  rather  severe  glances 
at  Mr.  Puffem,  and  looking  daggers  at  Mr.  Belden,  who 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  about  his  accounts,  and,  with  his 
pen  tucked  away  among  his  bushy  earlocks,  was  making 
sundry  expressive  signs  with  his  mouth  as  Henry  passed  him. 
The  bright  aspect  of  Henry's  countenance  seemed  to  have 
created  quite  a  commotion  in  the  mind  of  the  bookkeeper. 
It  was  a  small  matter,  but  very  marvellous  to  Mr.  Sharp,  and 
he  treasured  it  up  among  a  few  other  small  matters  which 
began  to  operate  in  his  mind  against  Mr.  Belden. 

It  would  be  of  no  avail  now,  to  name  a  certain  substantial, 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         201 

old-fashioned,  three-storied  house  in  Pearl  street,  near  what 
was  once  called  Sloat  lane ;  for  everything  in  that  vicinity 
has  been  swept  away  by  the  great  fire,  and  all  now  is  new. 
But  perhaps  some  readers  may  be  able  to  remember  that 
there  were  commodious  dwelling  houses  in  that  locality,  with 
stores  below — or  offices ;  with  large  yards  in  the  rear, 
running  back  against  other  large  yards,  belonging  to  some 
noble  buildings  in  Wall  street,  where  families  of  wealth  and 
distinction  lived  and  seemed  to  enjoy  life.  Trees  flourished 
in  these  yards,  and  the  sun  had  plenty  of  room  to  shed  his 
genial  light  and  heat ;  and  birds  resorted  there — where,  in 
early  mornings  and  on  Sabbath  days,  their  voices  could  be 
heard  so  as  almost  to  make  one  forget  that  the  country  was 
far  away. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  houses  in  Pearl  street,  that  the  firm 
of  Ralph  &  Co.  did  business.  At  the  time  we  are  designat 
ing,  a  small  tin  plate,  from  which  the  black  paint  and  gilt 
letters  were  almost  obliterated  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  time, 
but  on  which  the  name  of  the  above-mentioned  firm  was 
still  visible,  alone  gave  any  notice  that  it  was  a  place  of  busi 
ness  ;  for  the  only  entrance  to  the  office  was  through  the  hall- 
door  of  the  dwelling.  This  door  was  usually  open,  and  an 
inner  one  shut  off  access  to  the  dwelling;  and  you  entered 
on  the  left  hand  a  front  room,  apparently  unused  except  that 
a  few  trunks  and  boxes  lay  scattered  about  against  its  walls ; 
from  this  a  glass  door  opened  into  a  spacious  office  in  the 
rear,  neatly  carpeted,  with  a  large  mahogany  desk  between 
the  two  windows,  and  on  each  side  of  that,  mahogany 
escritoirs,  with  a  large  cushioned  chair  at  each.  This  office 
had  a  very  cheerful  aspect,  the  windows  opening  into  a  large 
yard,  and  everything  there  and  wjthin  the  room  being  in 
the  most  complete  order. 

The  name  of  Ralph  &  Co.,  merely  designated  an  old  firm ; 
the  business  being  now  carried  on  by  two  brothers,  Messrs. 
Thomas  and  Henry  Blenham  ;  the  elder  brother,  Thomas 
Blenham,  having  been  a  partner  of  Mr.  Ralph,  at  the  decease 
of  the  last-named  gentleman,  had  taken  his  brother  Henry 
into  the  concern. 

They  were,  or,  more  properly,  had  been,  largely  engaged 
in  the  tea  and  silk  business;  for  at  the  time  they  are  intro 
duced  to  the  reader,  but  little  business  of  any  kind  was  car- 


206  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OR, 

ried  on.  War  with  England  had  put  a  stop  to  trade ;  and 
although  the  mediatorial  offers  of  Russia  afforded  a  hopeful 
prospect  of  returning  peace ;  yet  few  were  actively  engaged 
in  mercantile  transactions,  but  such  as  were  alive  with  the 
spirit  of  speculation.  The  Messrs.  Blenham  had  accumulated 
a  handsome  property  by  their  regular  business,  and  did  not 
choose  to  turn  aside  from  that ;  and  were,  therefore,  not  fasci 
nated  by  the  temptation  to  which  many  yielded.  They  were 
now  merely  "  lying  at  their  oars,"  and  waiting  until  the  diffi 
culties  between  the  two  countries  should  be  settled. 

They  were  bachelors,  and  lived  together  and  kept  what 
was  then  called  "  bachelors'  hall."  They  occupied  the  upper 
part  of  the  house  for  that  purpose ;  which  was  well  furnished ; 
genteelly  but  with  no  attempt  at  show. 

Besides  themselves — two  colored  persons,  a  man  and  his 
wife,  the  latter  as  housemaid  and  cook,  and  the  former  waiter 
and  hostler — were  the  only  persons  attached  to  the  family. 

As  Mr.  Henry  Blenham  entered  the  office,  in  company 
with  Henry,  he  merely  remarked  to  his  brother,  who  was 
seated  at  one  of  the  side  desks,  and  appeared  to  be,  as  he 
really  was,  much  the  elder  of  the  two: 

"  This  young  man  has  come  with  me  that  we  may  give  him 
a  trial,  to  see  if  he  will  answer  our  turn." 

The  gentleman  thus  addressed,  cast  a  glance  at  Henry; 
there  was  a  slight  brightening  up  of  his  features;  a  gentle 
inclination  of  his  head;  and  then  he  resumed  his  position, 
and  went  on  with  his  writing. 

In  a  moment  more  Henry  was  standing  at  the  large  desk 
and  engaged  in  copying  a  long  account,  which  had  been 
placed  before  him,  and  Mr.  Blenham  remarked  as  he  did  so : 

"  As  I  wish  to  send  away  the  copy  you  are  making,  let  it 
be  as  much  better  than  the  original  as  possible." 

And  after  this  was  completed,  other  matters  were  put  into 
his  hand ;  some  letters  were  given  him  to  copy,  and  in 
various  ways  his  ability  with  the  pen  was  tested.  He  had, 
likewise,  a  few  errands  to  perform ;  some  bank  business  to 
do;  and  one  or  two  accounts  to  collect.  Whether  what  he 
had  done  was  satisfactory  he  could  not  tell,  for  nothing  was 
said  ;  neither  partner  apparently  being  much  in  the  habit  of 
talking.  And,  although,  when  he  was  addressed,  it  was  in 
a  mild,  pleasant  manner,  quite  in  contrast  with  what  he  had 


ALOISTE   ON   A   WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  207 

of  late  been  accustomed  to ;  yet  no  useless  words  were  ex 
pended — nothing  more  than  seemed  absolutely  necessary. 

At  three  o'clock,  the  gentlemen  withdrew  to  their  rooms 
for  dinner — Henry  having  been  called  to  his  at  an  earlier 
hour — and  it  was  not  until  quite  late  in  the  afternoon  that 
Mr.  Henry  Blenhara  appeared.  He  then  looked  over  some 
matters  that  he  had  given  Henry  to  prepare — cast  his  eye 
over  the  desk  and  around  the  room,  as  if  inspecting  the 
manner  in  which  things  had  been  arranged — and  then  taking 
his  seat,  asked  : 

"  How  do  you  think  you  would  like  such  employments  as 
have  occupied  you  to-day  ?" 

"  I  should  be  perfectly  satisfied,  sir,  if  my  services  are  only 
acceptable  to  you." 

"  One  day  is  scarcely  sufficient  as  a  test  on  either  side  ;  but  if 
you  feel  disposed  to  place  yourself  under  our  care,  and  do  your 
best  in  our  service,  we  will  venture  to  keep  you.  Our  object 
is  not  so  much  to  have  one  who  can  do  what  you  have  done 
to-day,  and  serve  our  turn  in  these  little  matters,  as  it  is  to 
have  a  young  person,  in  whom  we  can  perfectly  confide,  and 
who  will  so  identify  himself  with  our  interests,  that  we  can 
take  pleasure  in  advancing  him  ;  and  when  of  sufficient  age, 
can  send  him  abroad,  should  our  business  demand  it.  We 
do  not  want  a  mere  hireling — such,  at  times,  we  are  obliged 
to  have — but  I  tell  you  frankly  this  is  not  our  expectation  in 
making  this  engagement.  From  some  circumstances  I  have 
learned  in  reference  to  you,  I  cannot  but  hope  you  may  prove 
to  be  what  we  have  been  in  search  of — one  who  will  blend 
himself  with  our  interests,  and  in  whom  we  can  place  impli 
cit  confidence — you  understand  me,  Henry  ?" 

"I  think  I  do,  sir." 

"  We  should  prefer  to  have  you  live  in  our  family ;  so  you 
will  have  no  occasion  to  spend  any  money  for  board  ;  and  I 
think  one  hundred  dollars  a  year  will  find  you  in  clothes  and 
other  little  matters — and  you  can  draw  for  that  as  you  need. 
If  these  terms  are  satisfactory,  you  may  consider  the  en 
gagement  settled." 

The  whole  affair  from  his  first  introduction  to  Mr.  Blenham, 
was  so  extraordinary  and  astounding  to  Henry,  that  he  was 
almost  at  a  loss  what  to  say.  That  he  should  be  taken,  in 
the  hour  of  his  extremity,  and  placed,  under  such  circum- 


208  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

stances,  with  persons  who  were  perfect  strangers  to  him,  was 
such  a  token  of  divine  care,  that  his  whole  mind  was,  for 
the  moment,  absorbed  in  contemplation.  Not  giving  an  im 
mediate  answer,  Mr.  Blenham  spoke  again — 

"  Perhaps  you  have  some  better  prospect,  and  do  not  wish 
the  place." 

"  Oh,  pardon  me,  sir  !  I  was  thinking  of  your  great  kind 
ness  to  me  in  making  such  an  offer.  I  only  hope  I  may  be 
able  to  serve  you  so  that  your  expectations  may  be  realized. 
It  is  far  above  what  I  could  possibly  have  hoped  for." 

'  How  much  did  Mr.  Sharp  give  you  ?" 

'  One  hundred  dollars,  sir." 

'  And  your  board?" 

'  Oh,  no,  sir ;  I  found  myself." 

'  How  could  you  do  that  ?" 

'  I  lived  very  plain,  sir." 

Mr.  Blenham  made  some  remark  which  Henry  did  not 
hear,  but  it  sounded  very  much  like  a  harsh  epithet  coupled 
to  the  name  of  his  late  employer. 

"  Well,  Henry,  now  you  will  have  no  care  about  your  per 
sonal  wants,  and  can  turn  your  whole  attention  to  the  busi 
ness  before  you.  Your  interests  will  not  be  lost  sight  of  by 
us  while  you  are  attending  to  ours.  We  will  give  you  a  fair 
chance  to  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

That  night  Henry  found  himself  the  occupant  of  a  pleasant 
room  in  the  back  building  of  the  house,  where  everything 
was  provided  in  such  style  as  he  had  not  seen  since  he  left 
his  friends  the  Marstons. 

Sweet  is  the  song  of  the  little  warbler  that,  upon  its  perch 
for  the  night,  tells  to  the  quiet  listener  its  tale  of  gladness ; 
and  that  no  care  disturbs — no  sorrow  mars  its  being.  But 
sweeter  far  is  the  incense  from  the  humble,  grateful  heart ; 
when,  reviewing  the  mercies  of  the  day,  it  sends  its  warm 
emotions  up  to  heaven,  and  sinks  to  rest  as  in  the  arms  of 
everlasting  love.  Blest  youth !  you  have  begun  with  God  ; 
and  although  the  thorns  which  hedge  the  path  of  life  may 
often  pierce  you,  and  the  clouds  which  sweep  across  it  en 
velop  you  in  their  dark  shadows,  yet  strange  will  it  be  if, 
amid  darkness  and  grief,  you  do  not  find  some  bright  ray  to 
cheer,  or  some  balm  to  heal. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  WHY,  Evart  Marston  !     A  good  day  to  you." 

And  Mr.  Vernon,  as  he  said  this,  took  the  young  gentle 
man  by  the  hand,  as  he  entered  his  parlor,  where  the  latter 
was  sitting. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  but  I  was  just  con 
cluding  a  letter  which  I  wished  to  send  off  in  time  for  the 
mail.  How  are  all  at  home  ?" 

"  Quite  well,  I  thank  you,  sir.  I  hope  I  have  not  intruded, 
Mr.  Veruon  ;  I  know  it  is  rather  early  for  making  calls." 

"Not  too  early  for  me,  I  assure  you.  I  follow,  you  know, 
my  own  fashions,  and  live  quite  independently.  Bachelors 
are  not  so  particularly  bound  by  common  rules  as  some  other 
folks  are." 

"  If  you  are  not  perfectly  at  leisure,  sir,  I  will  take  some 
other  opportunity ;  but  I  feel  quite  anxious  to  have  some 
conversation  with  you  in  regard  to  a  few  personal  matters  of 
my  own." 

"  I  am  at  your  service  for  just  as  long  as  you  please." 

Mr.  Vernon  was  sincere  in  his  offer,  although  it  was  im 
possible  for  him  to  conceive  what  Evart  could  have  to  com 
municate.  He  had  tried  in  various  ways  to  influence  him, 
not  only  to  avoid  certain  courses  of  conduct,  which  he  be 
lieved  would,  if  persisted  in,  prove  his  ruin,  but  had  urged 
him  to  select  some  profession  or  species  of  business,  if  for 
nothing  else  that  his  mind  might  be  properly  occupied.  And 
he  felt  very  confident  that  for  some  time  Evart  had  avoided 
his  presence.  What  could  have  brought  him  now  was 
therefore  to  Mr.  Vernon  quite  a  mystery. 

"  You  have  sometimes  spoken  to  me,  Mr.  Vernon,  about 
my  engaging  in  some  employment  as  a  preparation  for  future 
life  ;  and  I  fear  I  have  not  paid  quite  that  regard  to  your 
advice  which  your  kind  interest  for  me  demanded.  But  it 
would  be  a  great  favor  to  me  now  to  have  your  counsel  on 
this  subject.  I  feel  that  the  course  I  have  been  pursuing  for 
some  time  is  not  likely  to  make  me  either  useful  or  happy." 

209 


210  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

"  What  kind  of  business  have  you  been  thinking  of!" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  have  made  any  selection.  In  fact  it 
is  very  difficult  for  me  to  fix  upon  any.  You  know  money- 
making  will  not  be  necessary.  You  would  not  advise  me  to 
any  branch  of  mercantile  business  ?" 

"  Not  without  you  had  a  decided  preference  for  it.  There 
is  quite  a  choice — the  field  is  large.  I  am  aware  that  there 
is  no  actual  necessity  so  far  as  the  making  of  money  is  con 
cerned.  You  will  doubtless  have  enough,  and  more  than 
enough,  to  enable  you  to  live  handsomely.  But  the  employ 
ment  of  one's  mind  is  a  great  consideration ;  and  in  some 
branches  of  business  there  is  scope  for  the  exercise  of  all  our 
faculties.  You  will  become  better  acquainted  with  mankind 
in  general.  Intercourse  with  men  of  enterprise  and  energy 
will  tend  to  quicken  your  own  powers  and  enlarge  your 
views.  You  will  also  become  more  familiar  with  the  state 
and  condition  of  our  own  country  and  of  foreign  lands.  And 
you  will  comprehend  more  clearly  the  great  secrets  of  indi 
vidual  and  national  success.  Much  good  to  others  may  also  in 
this  way  be  accomplished.  Large  mercantile  establishments 
necessarily  give  employment  to  many,  and  of  consequence  a 
support,  and  among  these  are  almost  always  to  be  found  some 
who  need  assistance,  and  who,  by  a  little  timely  aid,  may 
themselves  rise  to  independence.  On  these  accounts  business 
affords  advantages  beyond  the  mere  acquisition  of  gain. 

"  There  is,  however,  another  side  to  the  picture.  There 
are  risks  and  trials,  reverses  and  misfortunes.  Unforeseen 
events  will  sometimes  blast  the  finest  plans.  They,  however, 
sometimes  overtake  others  besides  those  engaged  in  traffic. 
Perhaps  you  have  your  mind  on  some  profession  ?" 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Vernon,  I  have  not  thought  particularly  what 
calling  to  pursue ;  but  for  some  days  my  mind  has  been  in 
tently  occupied  in  considering  my  present  situation.  I  can 
not  bear  the  thought  of  being  any  longer  a  mere  idler  in  life. 
I  know  I  have  money  enough  ;  I  need  not  labor  for  a  living. 
I  can,  when  of  age,  settle  in  life.  I  can  live  in  good  style ; 
I  can  keep  my  carriage  and  indulge  my  tastes,  and  can  spend 
my  time  as  I  please.  Sometimes  in  the  city,  during  the  win 
ter,  where  every  variety  of  amusement  will  be  at  my  com 
mand.  And  in  summer  I  can  while  it  away  in  the  country. 
But  what  will  it  all  amount  to  ?  Shall  I  be  happy  without 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         211 

any  care,  any  responsibility,  any  particular  aim  ?  It  looks 
forbidding  to  me.  I  want  your  advice." 

"  You  have  been  thinking  to  some  good  purpose,  I  trust, 
Evart,  and  have  arrived  at  some  very  just  conclusions.  In 
order  to  be  happy  we  must  have  some  great  aim  in  life — 
something  to  do — something  which  depends  upon  our  exer 
tions  and  faithfulness,  upon  our  foresight  and  wisdom.  Merely 
to  enjoy  life,  is  not  living.  I  feel  most  happy  on  your  account 
to  hear  you  express  such  views.  But  may  I  ask  you  what 
first  led  you  to  such  a  train  of  thought  ?" 

Evart  then  related  in  a  perfectly  frank  way  the  circumstances 
which  first  opened  his  eyes ;  the  conversation  he  had  held 
with  Henry  Thornton,  and  last  of  all  he  told  him  particularly 
about  the  little  treasure  which  Henry  had  put  into  his  hand ; 
"  and  here  it  is,"  said  Evart ;  "  it  is  a  leaf  from  the  Bible, 
and  you  have  no  doubt  read  it  a  great  many  times ;  but  I 
had  not,  and  never  before  did  any  words  take  hold  of  ray 
heart  as  these  had  done.  Please  do  not  tear  it,  sir,  for  he 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  it." 

Evart  said  this  because  Mr.  Vernon,  when  excited,  was  very 
rapid  in  his  motions,  and  his  eagerness  to  see  what  portion 
of  scripture  it  was,  caused  him  to  grasp  it  quickly  from  the 
hand  of  his  young  friend. 

"  Well,  well,  well,  Evart ;  I  do  not  know  the  young  man — 
whether  he  is  rich  or  poor,  and  care  as  little.  If  he  has 
chosen  these  as  his  directions  through  this  slippery  world, 
his  feet  will  be  very  apt  to  find  a  firm  resting-place  at  the 
worst  of  times.  Such  a  friend  or  companion  as  he  must  be, 
is  worth  having." 

"  He  is,  indeed,  sir ;  I  admire  him ;  I  love  him ;  he  is  a 
noble  fellow ;  worth  all  the  other  friends  I  have.  He  is 
poor ;  but  a  gentleman  in  heart  and  behavior.  I  wish  I 
could  have  the  privilege  of  introducing  him  to  you,  Mr. 
Vernon  ;  he  has  no  friend  in  the  city  but  myself." 

"  Do  so ;  do  so,  by  all  means ;  I  should  esteem  it  a  privi 
lege  to  become  acquainted  with  such  a  youth." 

Their  conversation  was  just  then  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  Mr.  Vernon's  elder  sister ;  a  lady  somewhat  advanced 
in  years,  of  very  dignified  mien,  and  a  remarkably  placid  and 
agreeable  countenance.  She  at  once  recognized  Evart,  and 
he  arose  to  meet  her.  Almost  immediately  the  attention  of 


212  TBUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

the  young  gentleman  was  arrested  by  the  appearance  of  another 
lady,  quite  in  contrast  with  the  one  he  was  addressing ;  for 
she  was  quite  young,  and  with  a  most  fascinating  countenance  ; 
at  least  we  venture  to  say  so  from  the  electric  power  which 
it  exercised  upon  the  young  man.  He  almost,  at  the  mo 
ment,  forgot  the  proprieties ;  he  made  no  reply  to  questions 
which  had  been  put  to  him  respecting  his  mother  ;  but  seemed 
rapt  in  astonishment  at  the  beautiful  vision  which  had 
burst  upon  him.  Miss  Vernon  turned  to  see  what  had  thus 
attracted  his  attention,  and  at  once  exclaimed  : 

u  Oh,  Miss  Louise,  I  did  not  think  you  had  come  down !" 

Both  ladies  were  about  to  take  a  walk,  and  were  arrayed 
accordingly  ;  Miss  Vernon  had  come  in  to  say  a  word  to  her 
brother,  not  expecting  to  find  any  one  besides  him  in  the 
parlor,  and  the  young  lady,  seeing  the  door  open  and  hearing 
the  voice  of  the  former,  very  naturally  entered  to  let  her 
know  that  she  was  ready. 

"  Miss  Lovelace,  Mr  Marston." 

Evart  was  quite  himself  again  as  he  made  his  polite 
obeisance ;  but  Mr.  Vernon  and  his  sister  both  noticed  how 
the  color  rose  to  his  face,  and  how  absorbed  he  was  on  first 
noticing  Louise.  The  young  lady  returned  his  salutation  in 
a  very  formal  manner ;  she  did  not  speak,  and  maintained  her 
position  just  within  the  door ;  waiting  patiently  until  Miss 
Vernon  was  ready  to  accompany  her. 

As  they  were  about  to  depart,  Mr.  Vernon  made  a  playful 
remark  to  Louise,  which  she  answered  by  a  smile  that 
lighted  up  her  beautiful  features  with  a  radiance  peculiarly 
its  own.  The  smile  of  Louise  had  an  effect  on  her  serious 
cast  of  countenance  like  that  of  a  sunbeam  on  the  leaves  of 
autumn. 

Evart  saw  it ;  never  before  had  a  smile  so  touched  his 
heart ;  there  was  a  fascination  in  it  that  clung  to  him  long 
after  she  had  left  his  presence. 

With  all  his  heart  he  wished  that  his  friend  might  enter 
into  some  explanation,  as  to  who  she  was,  and  whether  a 
member  of  his  family,  or  a  mere  visitor  of  an  hour.  But  Mr. 
Vernon,  so  soon  as  they  had  gone,  resumed  the  subject  of  con 
versation  which  had  previously  engaged  them. 

"  You  tell  me,  Evart,  that  you  have  broken  off  all  inter 
course  with  your  former  companions?" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        213 

I  cannot  say  that,  sir ;  I  feel  rery  kindly  towards  them, 
and  have  done  nothing  that  ought  to  hinder  friendly  feelings 
or  friendly  intercourse." 

"  Very  true ;  but  the  fact  of  your  taking  the  stand  you  tell 
me  you  have  taken ;  and  the  conversation  which  you  have 
related  to  me  as  having  held  with  them,  will,  in  all  proba 
bility,  lead  to  a  separation  ;  they  will  not  likely  seek  your 
society  ;  and  you,  I  trust,  will  not  be  anxious  to  go  after 
them." 

"  I  certainly  shall  not,  Mr.  Vernon ;  I  am  decided  as  to 
that." 

"  Just  so ;  you  will  for  a  time,  then,  be  rather  alone." 

"  I  want  to  be,  sir." 

"Yes  ;  but  you  must  have  something  to  engage  your  mind. 
Suppose,  now,  as  a  preliminary  step  to  the  great  subject  we 
have  been  upon,  I  should  propose  to  you  a  course  of  reading ; 
you  have  not,  perhaps,  read  systematically." 

"  I  have  scarcely  read  at  all,  sir." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  begin  ?" 

"  Most  heartily,  sir." 

"  In  your  library,  I  know,  are  all  the  most  useful  works ; 
but  in  order  to  read  them  profitably  and  with  satisfaction, 
you  need  to  be  directed ;  I  will,  to-morrow,  probably,  call  at 
your  house  and  look  over  the  library,  and  make  a  little  selec 
tion  for  you.  '  It  is  not  good  that  the  mind  be  without 
knowledge.'  A  taste  for  reading  is  an  absolute  necessity  not 
only  for  our  usefulness,  but  for  our  happiness ;  and  you  would 
wish  to  cultivate  such  a  taste  as  will  lead  you  to  choose  that 
kind  of  reading  which  will  inform  the  mind  and  make  the 
heart  better.  Shall  I  be  your  Mentor  ?" 

"  Most  truly,  Mr.  Vernon,  I  wish  you  to  be ;  I  have  no  one 
but  you  to  whom,  as  I  now  feel,  I  can  look  for  the  guidance 
I  need." 

"  You  shall  have  it,  my  dear  Evart,  with  all  my  heart ; 
and  my  desire  is  that  you  make  a  confident  of  me,  if  you 
feel  you  can  do  so.  I  am  ready  to  be  your  friend  ;  my  house 
is  open  to  you  at  all  times  ;  your  company  here  will  be  very 
acceptable;  I  think  we  shall  have  much  to  talk  about;  you 
will  be  reading  works  which  are  familiar  to  me — or  which 
have  been,  years  ago — and  it  will  be  a  pleasure  to  me  to 
have  my  memory  quickened  on  topics  with  which  I  was  one* 


214  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

much  interested ;  I  shall  anticipate  many  pleasant  evenings 
with  you  in  our  family  circle.  But  one  thing  I  must  say  to 
you."  Evart  had  risen,  and  was  about  to  take  his  leave ;  Mr. 
Vernon  had  not  forgotten  the  thought  he  was  about  to  sug 
gest;  but  he  had  his  own  way  of  doing  things ;  he  had  great 
confidence  in  the  power  of  one  idea,  thrown  out,  as  it  were, 
without  forethought  or  previous  design.  "  I  was  going  to  say 
to  you,"  and  he  put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  youth, 
"  that  these  instructions  which  are  so  clearly  given  to  us  in 
the  Scriptures,  and  especially  that  portion  of  them  which 
has  attracted  your  notice,  involve  something  beyond  a  mere 
external  conformity  to  certain  rules.  Perhaps  as  you  study 
them — which  I  hope  you  will — my  meaning  will  be  more 
evident.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  the  heart  brought  into 
unison  with  the  divine  precepts." 

It  was  well  for  Evart  that  Mr.  Vernon  had  chosen  to  drop 
this  hint  at  the  very  close  of  their  interview.  He  did  not, 
indeed,  comprehend  its  full  meaning ;  but  the  words  remained 
fixed  in  his  mind :  "  It  is  a  great  thing  to  have  the  heart 
brought  into  unison  with  the  divine  precepts."  Again,  and 
again,  he  repeated  them  on  his  way  homeward ;  he  seemed 
anxious  not  to  forget  them  ;  he  knew  there  must  be  something 
in  the  idea,  of  more  consequence  than  he  was  then  able  to 
apprehend,  or  Mr.  Vernon  would  not  have  delivered  the  sen 
timent  in  such  an  emphatic  manner.  He  resolved  to  pry  into 
the  mystery ;  and  as  he  had  been  requested,  would  study  more 
closely  than  he  had  as  yet  done,  not  only  the  little  leaf  which 
Henry  had  given  him,  but  other  parts  of  the  Holy  Word. 

Mr.  Vernon,  to  his  great  regret,  had  lost  all  trace  of  Caro 
line  Jeralman.  She  had  not  returned  to  Stratton ;  nor  could 
he  find  any  clue  as  to  the  probable  course  she  took  when 
leaving  her  haunt  at  that  place.  At  times  he  was  forced  to 
the  conclusion  that  Caroline  Jeralman  and  Jane  Byfield  were 
one  and  the  same  person.  If  so,  he  feared  she  had  doubtless 
perished  in  the  flames  at  Tyrrel  place,  as  Miss  Hasbrook  had 
assured  him.  The  only  hope  which  he  at  all  indulged  was, 
that  possibly  Jane  and  her  father  had  fled  together.  It  was, 
indeed,  said  that  the  old  man  was  very  hostile  to  his  daugh 
ter;  but  that  was  so  while  he  himself  was  in  favor.  It  might 
have  been,  on  ascertaining  that  Jane  had  been  received  by  the 
"  young  mistress,"  and  fearing  the  consequences,  ho  may  have 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        215 

sought  an  interview  with  his  daughter,  and  persuaded  her  to 
escape  with  him,  lest  their  crime  should  be  visited  upon  them. 
This,  indeed,  would  have  appeared  plausible,  if  he  had  taken 
any  of  his  property  with  him ;  but  the  fact  of  his  leaving 
even  his  better  clothes,  and  all  his  money,  almost  forbade  the 
idea. 

His  friend,  Captain  Marston,  had  sailed  early  in  the  winter 
from  Boston,  expecting  to  visit  several  of  the  West  India 
islands,  for  the  purpose  of  closing  up  some  old  unsettled  busi 
ness,  and  to  avoid  the  severity  of  winter,  having  been  alarmed 
the  last  season  by  some  symptoms  of  pulmonary  disease.  It 
was  quite  a  relief  to  Mr.  Vernon  to  be  freed  from  the  neces 
sity  of  corresponding  upon  a  subject  so  beset  with  perplexities, 
and  on  which  he  dared  not  deliver  his  real  sentiments;  he 
could  say  nothing  definite,  and  a  shadow  of  uncertainty  would 
have  been  as  fatal  to  fcll  parties  as  perfect  ignorance. 

That  Louise  was  the  child  of  his  friends,  he  had  himself 
scarcely  a  doubt ;  he  had  found  all  the  links  in  the  chain  but 
one.  That,  however,  was  the  most  important  of  all.  One 
human  being  alone  could  testify  to  that,  which,  if  wanting  in 
the  chain  of  evidence,  would  nullify  all  the  rest. 

He  had  become  much  attached  to  Louise ;  he  found  her  to 
be  far  superior  to  those  of  her  own  age  with  whom  he  had 
b(!en  acquainted.  The  peculiarity  of  her  situation  had  in 
duced  a  thoughtful  habit ;  she  had  learned,  by  reasoning  on 
the  future  consequences  to  herself  and  others,  in  regard  to  the 
uncertainty  of  her  parentage,  to  balance  in  her  mind  other 
subjects  of  interest,  so  as  to  form  definite  conclusions;  sho 
manifested  a  fixedness  of  purpose  not  common  with  one  of 
her  years,  and  if  sometimes  it  seemed  to  border  on  obstinacy, 
it  was  equally  manifest  that  she  acted  from  reasons  which,  to 
her  own  mind  at  least,  were  proper  and  all-sufficient. 

The  change  of  place  and  scenes,  however,  had  not  proved 
as  salutary  as  Mr.  Vernon  hoped  they  might.  The  cause  of 
disturbance  was  too  deeply  impressed  to  be  thus  removed  ;  and 
as  months  were  added  to  her  age,  the  more  keen  became  her 
sensibility.  There  was  no  joy  to  be  derived  by  her  from  those 
circumstances  in  life  that  would  have  filled  the  heart  of  most 
young  persons  with  a  fine  flow  of  spirits.  She  could  not  but 
hear  at  times  the  whispers  of  unwise  acquaintances,  who  were 
filled  with  admiration  at  her  fine  form  and  beautiful  counto- 


216  TRUE    TO   THE   LAST  J   OR, 

nance,  as  well  as  her  easy  manners ;  but  no  fire  was  kindled 
in  her  breast.  What  was  beauty  to  her  ?  or  grace  of  manner  ? 
or  wealth  1  She  knew  that  to  the  latter  was,  in  general,  at 
tached  much  consequence ;  it  had  charms  not  only  to  those 
whose  base  spirits  have  no  other  shrine,  but  even  to  those 
who  were  worthy  of  all  praise.  To  her  it  seemed  only  a 
burden — an  attachment  that,  by  a  kind  of  necessity,  placed 
her  where  she  was  a  conspicuous  mark.  She  could  not, 
indeed,  know  from  her  own  experience  how  much  more 
desolate  she  would  be  without  it,  and  therefore  only  looked 
upon  it  as  an  aggravation  of  the  trial  to  which  her  life  was 
doomed. 

Mr.  Vernon  knew  all  this ;  he  had  frequent  and  free  con 
versations  with  her,  and,  so  far  as  she  could,  she  opened  her 
heart  to  him.  One  feature  in  her  case,  however,  presented  a 
hopeful  aspect :  she  was  fond  of  reading ;  a  book  seemed  to 
connect  her  with  past  days,  when  her  young  heart  had  no 
trouble — when,  thoughtless  of  the  past  or  future,  she  used 
to  sit  by  Henry  and  look  over  the  page  with  him,  and  talk 
about  the  birds  and  flowers.  Then,  indeed,  it  was  the  story, 
or  the  picture,  that  amused;  but  by  degress  a  thirst  for  know 
ledge  was  awakened.  She  remembered  how  Henry  often  told 
her  of  the  interest  he  felt  in  reading  about  ages  of  the  world 
long  past,  and  of  the  changes  which  had  passed  upon  the  na 
tions  ;  and  of  the  doings  of  great  men,  of  wars  and  warriors, 
martyrs  and  reformers ;  and  whatever  Henry  had  loved,  she 
loved ;  and  whatever  he  took  an  interest  in,  had  a  peculiar 
charm  for  her.  How  much  this  had  to  do  with  her  present 
feelings,  we  cannot  say ;  but  that  she  loved  to  read,  and  that 
no  subject  of  interest  to  an  active  mind,  however  drily  it 
might  be  presented,  was  distasteful  to  her,  Mr.  Vernon  knew, 
and  he  had  with  care  selected  for  her,  mingling  the  romantic 
and  beautiful  with  that  which  was  stern  and  real. 

Nor  had  he  failed,  as  opportunity  occurred,  to  throw  in 
thoughts  about  the  world  to  come ;  our  fitness  for  it,  the 
heart's  corrupt  condition,  and  of  the  great  change  which  we 
musu  pass  through,  before  we  can  judge  or  feel  aright.  But 
he  had  not  yet  been  able  to  prevail  upon  Louise  to  say  whe 
ther  her  views  were  like  his  own,  or  what  they  were ;  he  ra 
ther  thought,  by  some  unhappy  cause,  religion — that  which 
has  its  seat  within  the  heart — was  not  a  theme  she  liked,  or 


ALONE  ON  A  WICE,  WIDE  SEA.         217 

else  some  dark  cloud  rested  upon  it,  through  which  she  could 
not  see.  There  was  nothing,  however,  in  her  life  that  might 
not  have  been  the  effect  of  grace.  Her  manner  was  most 
mild  and  lovely,  and  even  when  her  strong  will  was  crossed, 
although  her  opinion  might  not  be  changed,  she  yielded  with 
docility. 

But  what  gave  him  most  concern,  was  the  set'.led  sadness 
that  had  become  evident,  even  to  casual  visitors ;  at  times, 
indeed,  a  bright  smile  would  light  up  h«r  sweet  face,  but  it 
passed  quickly  away,  just  like  a  meteor  across  the  dark  sky. 
It  was  evident  that  one  forbidding  idea  had  the  ascendency, 
and  unless  nullified,  or  its  cause  removed,  the  result  might 
be  what  those  who  loved  her  dared  hardly  whisper  to  each 
other. 

Louise  was  in  the  habit  of  corresponding  with  Mrs.  Thomp 
son  and  her  cousins,  as  she  still  called  them.  And  she  called 
them  so  now,  for  the  reason  that,  when  separated  from  those 
with  whom  she  had  so  long  lived,  the  affection  she  truly  had 
for  them  was  made  more  sensible  to  her  own  heart.  Their 
uniform  kindness  and  their  considerate  regard  for  her  peculiar 
situation  was  remembered  by  her,  and  thought  more  of,  as 
her  mind  became  more  mature  and  capable  of  forming  a  cor 
rect  judgment.  Her  fear,  and  we  might  almost  say  dislike, 
of  the  father,  never  for  one  moment  biased  her  against  them. 

One  day,  on  opening  a  letter  from  them,  she  found  an  in- 
closure  directed  to  her  from  the  city  of  New  York,  for  it  had 
that  post-mark  upon  it.  Of  course  it  had  not  been  opened. 
She  broke  the  seal.  It  had  neither  name  nor  address;  but  in 
a  plain  neat  hand  was  written,  or  rather  painted,  with  a  pen, 
simply  the  word  MIZPAH. 

She  knew  not  the  handwriting,  and  at  once  supposed  that 
some  person — whom,  she  could  not  imagine — had  designed  it 
for  sport,  or  for  some  reason  not  even  so  laudable  as  that. 
Not  knowing  what  the  word  meant,  and  with  more  or  less 
apprehension  that  its  solution  might  only  be  a  cause  of  annoy 
ance,  she  retained  it  a  day  or  two,  without  making  any  attempt 
to  gain  information  on  the  subject.  Perhaps,  too,  there  was 
some  sensitiveness  lest  she  might  encounter  the  friendly  smile 
of  the  Misses  Vernon  at  the  singularity  of  the  epistle,  or  be 
cause  of  her  ignorance  of  its  contents. 

At  length  she  resolved  to  apply  to  Mr.  Vernon.  "  He  never 
10 


218  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

smiled  at  her  ignorance,  and  if  there  was  anything  wrong 
about  it,  he  was  the  proper  one  to  go  to."  So,  taking  the  let 
ter  in  her  hand,  she  went  into  the  library,  where  he  was  gene 
rally  to  be  found  when  alone ;  and  placing  it  before  him, 
simply  related  how  she  had  received  it,  and  then  said : 

"  Can  you  decipher  its  meaning  ?" 

"That  I  can,  dear  Louise.  What  a  beautiful  idea!  But 
no  name !  It  must  be  from  some  friend,  who  anticipates  that 
your  knowledge  of  the  word  and  the  circumstances  of  your 
relation  to  each  other,  will  make  it  all  plain  to  you  without 
the  signature.  A  beautiful  idea,  though — and  with  more 
meaning  to  it,  and  conveying  the  sentiments  of  true  friendship 
more  forcibly,  than  would  many  pages  such  as  friends  com 
monly  address  to  each  other." 

Louise  was  much  excited  and  very  impatient  to  hear  its  in 
terpretation,  but  she  remained  perfectly  silent ;  only  wondering 
more  than  ever  what  its  signification  could  be.  Mr.  Vernon 
then  asked  Louise  to  bring  his  Bible  from  the  table. 

"Now,  my  dear,  just  turn  to — stay,  I  forget  the  chapter." 
Arid  taking  it  from  the  anxious  girl,  turned  in  a  moment  to 
Genesis,  and  finding  the  thirty-first  chapter,  pointed  with  his 
finger  to  the  forty-ninth  verse. 

"  Bead  it  for  yourself." 

She  looked  steadily  at  the  passage  for  some  time :  perhaps 
she  did  not  comprehend  the  whole  matter  at  once,  or  her 
heart  was  filled  with  such  intense  emotion  that  she  wished  to 
read  it  again  and  again. 

Mr.  Vernon  perceived  that  whatever  had  been  dark  about 
it  was  now  made  clear.  Her  flushed  face,  her  intent  look, 
and  the  silent  tear  that  came  stealing  down  her  fair  cheek, 
assured  him  that  the  mystery  was  unravelled. 

He  did  not  wish  to  pry  into  the  secret,  whatever  it  might 
be ;  and  was  really  rejoiced  to  find  that  she  was  still  so  sus 
ceptible,  and  that  in  spite  of  all  her  determination  to  shut  in 
those  feelings  which  others  might  safely  indulge,  she  could 
yet  reciprocate  true  love — for  he  had  no  doubt  it  was  a  token 
of  that  nature. 

But,  firm  in  his  determination  not  to  appear  to  watch  her, 
and  merely  to  stand  ready  as  a  friend  and  guide  whenever  she 
should  ask  his  aid  or  counsel,  he  said  nothing. 

Louise  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  walked  slowly  to- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        219 

wards  the  door,  as  though  about  to  leave  the  room.  She 
paused  a  moment,  and  then  came  back. 

"  Mr.  Vernon,  I  cannot  keep  anything  from  you — I  must 
tell  you." 

The  effort  to  speak  proved  more  than  she  was  equal  to ; 
her  heart  was  overcharged,  and  she  gave  way  to  a  flood  of 
tears.  It  was  some  time  before  the  storm  subsided,  so  as  to 
allow  her  to  unburden  her  mind.  She  then,  with  all  the  con 
fidence  of  a  child  in  a  parent,  unfolded  to  Mr.  Vernon  her 
regard  for  Henry.  She  told  him  how  they  had  become  ac 
quainted  ;  how  considerate  and  kind  he  had  been ;  how  mild 
was  his  temper;  how  agreeable  his  manners;  how  fond  he 
was  of  gaining  knowledge ;  and  how  he  had  induced  her  to 
attend  to  the  improvement  of  her  mind.  She  told  him  of 
their  last  parting,  and  how  he  was  compelled  to  leave  "his 
home  and  was  thrown  upon  the  wide  world ;  and  how  she  had 
tried  to  induce  him  to  take  money  from  her  own  purse,  but  in 
vain ;  and  that  the  reason  why  she  told  all  this  was,  that  Mr. 
Vernon  should,  if  possible,  find  him  out,  and  learn  how  he 
was  situated.  "  It  might  be  he  was  in  trouble ;  he  was  so 
sensitive  and  so  anxious  to  take  care  of  himself,  that  he  would 
suffer  a  great  deal  before  he  would  let  any  one  know  it ;  and 
she  would  rather  suffer  herself  than  Henry  should  be  in  want." 
And  then  she  paused. 

"  I  see  clearly,  my  dear  Louise,  that  you  are  much  inter 
ested  in  this  youth  ; — you  truly  love  him,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  do,  sir,  most  truly." 

"  And  do  you  think  he  has  an  equal  regard  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  very  sure  of  it." 

"You  are  very  young  yet,  Louise,  to  be  serious,  as  you  seem 
to  be,  about  such  a  matter  ;  almost  too  young.  Have  you  a 
mutual  understanding  on  the  subject?" 

"  I  do  not  know,  Mr.  Vernon,  that  I  comprehend  your 
meaning." 

"  Well,  my  dear  Louise,  what  I  mean  is — has  he  told  you 
how  he  feels  toward  you,  and  have  you  allowed  him  to  un 
derstand  that  you  are  equally  interested  in  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  we  understand  each  other  perfectly.  We 
were  like  brother  and  sister ;  and  a  sister  I  must  ever  be  to 
him." 

"  True ;  but  you  know,  Louise,  you  are  becoming  older 


TRUE  TO   THE   LAST. 

every  day.  Feelings  such  as  you  describe  may  be  well  enough 
for  young  girls  and  boys ;  but  he  must  be  verging  towards 
manhood,  and  you  are  now  quite  a  young  lady.  You  cannot 
expect  to  maintain  such  a  relationship  as  you  have  been  im 
agining.  It  will  either  pass  off,  as  is  commonly  the  case, 
or  it  will  result  in  a  stronger  bond  than  that  of  brother  and 
sister." 

"  That  can  never  be,  Mr.  Vernon.  Do  you  think  I  would 
have  allowed  one  I  value  so  much  to  be  bound  to  me,  or  to 
think  of  linking  himself  with  me  ?  No,  sir — never  !" 

'  And  does  he  know  of  your  determination  in  this  respect  ?' 

'  Yes,  sir." 

'  And  does  he  know  about  your  great  trial !" 

'  He  does,  sir." 

'  And  is  he  perfectly  willing  that  thus  it  should  be ;  and 
at  no  future  time  would  he  care  to  bring  your  friendship  into 
closer  bonds  ?" 

"  Mr.  Vernon,  you  know,  as  you  have  just  said,  we  are  both 
young,  /.know  that,  in  regard  to  my  own  purpose,  nothing 
can  ever  change  it ;  but  he  does  not  know  how  he  will  feel 
some  years  hence.  He  thinks  my  situation  is  of  no  conse 
quence,  but  he  will  not  always  think  so  ;  and  would  I  not  be 
very  unkind  and  unwise  to  allow  him  for  a  moment  to  feel  that 
we  can  be  anything  more  to  each  other  than  we  now  are  ?" 

Mr.  Vernon  was  silent  a  few  moments ;  at  length,  laying 
his  hand  on  the  arm  of  Louise — 

"  I  find,  dear  Louise,  that  you  are  more  fit  to  be  trusted 
with  your  own  affairs  than  I  just  now  thought  for.  I  promise 
you  I  will  take  measures  to  ascertain  whether  this  young  man 
is  in  the  city,  and  will  try  to  learn  how  he  is  situated ;  and 
if  I  succeed,  you  shall  know  all  about  him.  Is  any  one  else 
aware  of  the  circumstances  ?" 

"  No  human  being." 

"  That  is  well ;  I  shall  not  betray  your  trust." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  some  weeks  after  Henry  had  been  snugly  settled  in 
his  new  quarters ;  he  had  closed  the  office,  and,  leaving  the 
house,  walked  with  a  very  quick  step  up  Pearl  to  John  street, 
and  then  up  the  latter  into  William  street,  and,  at  a  few  doors 
from  the  corner,  stepped  up  and  rang  the  bell  of  a  plain,  old- 
fashioned,  three-story  dwelling ;  as  the  door  was  opened,  he 
asked — 

"  Does  Mr.  Belden  live  here  ?" 

"  He  does,  sir ;  you  will  find  him  in  his  room,  the  third 
story,  front  room." 

As  soon  as  Henry  knocked,  a  quick  step  was  heard,  and  in 
a  moment  the  door  was  opened. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ? — come  in." 

Mr.  Belden's  appearance  was  rather  more  flurried  than 
usual.  His  hair,  generally  bushy,  was  now  standing  all  ways, 
as  though  he  had  been  shaking  it  violently,  or  running  both 
hands  through  it,  as  he  was  apt  to  do  when  much  excited. 
He  had  no  coat  on,  and  rather  loose  slippers  were  supplying 
the  place  of  his  neatly  polished  boots.  His  face,  too,  was 
quite  red,  but  Henry  could  account  for  that  by  seeing  a  lively 
fire  on  the  hearth,  and  a  saucepan,  with  something  therein, 
stewing  upon  some  coals  drawn  out  upon  it,  with  a  coffee 
pot  beside  it,  sending  forth  in  its  steam  a  very  agreeable  odor 
through  the  apartment.  A  small  table  was  standing  in  the 
centre  of  the  room,  covered  with  an  oil-cloth,  and  on  it  a 
plate  of  crackers,  a  roll  of  butter,  a  cup  and  saucer,  and  an 
empty  plate,  with  knife  and  fork  attached,  and  a  small  castor- 
stand  ;  in  fact,  everything  gave  token  that  Mr.  Belden  was 
preparing  to  have  a  private  supper. 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Henry,  as  soon  as  he  saw  how 
matters  stood,  "  that  I  have  come  so  early,  Mr.  Belden  ;  but  I 
was  so  anxious  to  see  you." 

"  What  are  you  sorry  for  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  I  supposed  you  had  done  supper,  and  I  had  no 

idea  " 

221 


222  TKTTE  TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

"  Never  mind  the  ideas  ;  supposed  I  had  my  supper  ! — • 
well,  so  I  have  ;  what  they  call  supper,  or  tea,  or  whatever  it 
is;  but  what  is  it  ? — it  will  do  as  a  kind  of  form,  but  it  won't 
keep  a  man  alive  till  morning — not  if  he's  been  through  what 
/  have  this  day.  Slop  fodder  will  do  sometimes,  but  when 
there's  an  extra  wear  and  tear  upon  a  man,  you  see,  that's 
another  thing." 

"  Have  you  had  hard  work  to-day,  sir  ?" 

"  Hard  work ! — yes."  And  then  Mr!  Belden  dived  down 
at  his  skillet,  and,  pulling  it  from  the  coals,  hurried  to  his 
closet,  and  bringing  thence  a  large  bowl,  emptied  into  it  the 
contents  of  the  smoking  utensil  which  he  carried  in  his  other 
hand — some  of  the  finest-looking  oysters  Henry  had  ever 
seen — saying,  at  the  same  time — 

"  You  see,  I  don't  trust  my  carcass  to  sour  bread  and  slop 
tea.  A  man  has  got  to  take  care  of  himself.  Come,  now, 
sit  down,  you're  not  going  to  stir ;  there's  enough  for  both  of 
us  here.  These  oysters  have  swelled  amazingly — wouldn't 
have  thought  it — -glad  you've  come — been  thinking  about  you 
— I  knew  you  had  better  taken  a  little  at  the  time,  but  it 
will  be  all  the  same  ;  I've  got  some  coppers  yet,"  giving  his 
pocket  a  slap,  "  only  I'm  afraid  you  have  been  pinching  it  too 
hard.  But  you  look  chirp ;  I  rather  guess  you  are  of  that 
sort,  like  David,  or  Daniel,  or  somebody  or  other  whom  I 
read  of  when  I  was  a  youngster,  who  grew  fat  on  pulse,  though 
what  pulse  was  is  more  than  I  know ;  I  don't  believe  it  was 
crackers  and  cheese.  But  you  do  look  chirp;  aint  down 
hearted,  are  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir." 

"That's  right,  keep  the  pluck  up,  come  what  will.  Come, 
now,  sit  right  down  and  help  me  eat  these  oysters." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Belden,  I  have  eaten  a  hearty 
supper." 

"  Don't  believe  a  word  of  it;  sit  down,  I  say." 

And  Henry,  without  further  parley,  took  a  seat  by  the 
table,  but  had  hard  work  to  keep  Mr.  Belden  from  helping 
him  to  a  larger  supply  of  oysters  than  would  have  sufficed 
had  he  really  been,  as  Mr.  Belden  said,  "  pinching  it." 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  happened  in  ;  kills  two  birds  with  one 
stone  ;  eat  hearty  now  ;  keep  up  your  spirits  ;  I've  got  some 
left  yet.  How  long  have  you  been  out  ?" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         223 

Henry  not  comprehending  what  his  friend  meant,  looked 
at  him  a  moment. 

"  Out,  I  say — out  of  cash  ?  You  know  you  promised  me 
to  come,  and  I've  been  looking  for  you  ever)'  day  ;  eat  hearty ; 
you'll  find  Joe  Belden  as  good  as  his  word." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Belden,  I  thank  you  very  much,  but  I  have  got 
along  wonderfully." 

"  I  should  think  you  had,  to  make  a  live  of  it  so  long ;  you 
hadn't  much,  /  know." 

"Oh,  sir,  but  I  got  an  excellent  place  the  very  next 
day." 

Mr.  Belden  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  looked  with 
the  most  profound  amazement  at  Henry,  who  could  not  re 
press  a  smile  at  his  earnest  manner. 

"  Who  got  it  for  you  «" 

"  Oh,  sir,  it  was  very  wonderful !"  And  then  Henry  gave 
him  a  full  account  of  all  that  had  transpired  at  Messrs. 
W.  &  Go's.,  while  Mr.  Belden  progressed  with  the  work 
before  him.  Slipping  the  oysters  out  of  the  way  with  most 
remarkable  celerity,  and  apparent  satisfaction ;  so  much  so, 
that  he  had  finished  and  shoved  away  his  plate  long  before 
the  narrative  was  through ;  and  he  sat  looking  in  a  wild,  con 
fused  manner,  sometimes  at  Henry,  and  sometimes  up  at  the 
ceiling.  When  Henry  paused,  Mr.  Belden  fixed  his  eye 
steadily  upon  him. 

"  Young  man,  you're  lucky  !  and  I  tell  you  what  I  think, 
you  belong  to  somebody  or  other,  that  has  done  something  or 
other,  that  will  always  bring  you  on  your  feet,  throw  you 
where  they  like.  There  hasn't  no  such  case  come  in  my 
way  before.  I've  seen  considerable  of  what  they  call  ups 
and  downs,  and  changes  and  chances,  and  running  into  holes 
and  out  of  them,  and  jumping  among  spikes  and  never  stuck 
by  them,  and  getting  into  deep  water  and  never  drowning ; 
but  this  beats  all.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  you've  got  something 
or  other,  or  somebody  or  other,  a  looking  out  for  you — a 
taking  care  of  you.  I  don't  know  but  I  should  like,  young 
as  you  are,  just  to  pin  my  coat-flaps  to  yours,  and  let  you  go 
a-head. — Well,  I  feel  better  now.  What  with  the  supper, 
and  what  with  your  story,  I  feel  a  little  more  settled  in  my 
mind  ;  but  I've  had  a  hard  day  of  it ;  you  see,  I've  quit  1" 

"  Quit  Mr.  Sharps' !" 


224  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST ;   OR, 

"  Shook  my  head ;  swore  at  them ;  kicked  ;  closed  ac 
counts  ;  slammed  the  door  in  their  face,  and  here  I  am,  all 
afloat.  You  see,  it's  been  a  brewing,  a  working  for  some 
time.  Cross  looks  ;  worrying  for  this,  and  hurrying  for  that ; 
crusty,  snappish  orders ;  squints,  whisperings,  and  all  that 
kind  of  deviltry.  I  saw  it,  but  I  kept  ,grubbing.  It  stuck 
however  ;  stuck  right  here  !"  And  Mr.  Belden  gave  himself 
quite  a  blow  on  the  part  designated,  which,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  must  have  been  done  without  forethought ;  he 
only  did  a  little  extra  coughing,  however.  "  What  brought 
things  to  a  focus  was  the  miserable  breakfast  they  gave  me 
this  morning ! — sour  bread,  sir,  muddy  coffee,  fried  holibut. 
Fish,  mind  you,  ain't  flesh  ;  it's  sloppy,  windy  stuff.  But  sour 
bread  sir,  is  the — the  most  unrighteous  thing  you  can  put 
into  your  stomach.  A  man,  sir,  might  as  well  have  the — 
bullets  in  him.  But  I  forked  it  down  whole,  I  couldn't 
bear  to  taste  it.  Well,  very  soon  everything  began  to  look 
green,  yellow,  blue,  black — all  colors  but  the  right  one  ! 
Thinks  I,  '  I  hope  they  won't  go  to  poking  to-day,  there'll  be 
murder  if  they  do.  Can't  stand  everything — gripes  inside,  and 
kicks  outside ;  must  do  something ;  I  shall  swear,  I  know  I 
shall — wicked,  I  know  it  is,  but  can't  help  it ;  that  is,  if  they 
come  at  me !'  Well,  there  was  quite  a  to-do  when  I  got 
there.  Bills  ever  so  many  to  be  made  out — all  right. — soon 
did  that.  Then,  '  I  must  go  and  collect  them  ;'  went  against 
the  grain — boy's  work  ;  but  out  1  went.  '  Bank  business  to 
be  done,  money  to  borrow.'  Sent  out  again.  All  right. 
Customers  thick,  '  must  do  the  writing  at  night  and  wait 
upon  the  ladies.'  Not  used  to  it ;  but  all  right  still.  They 
poked  hard ;  tried  to  worry  me  out,  but  stood  the  fire. 
4  Ding  it,'  says  I,  '  I  see  what  you're  up  to,'  but  I  held  in. 
At  last,  waiting  upon  a  lady,  in  comes  a  great  strapping 
wench,  black  as  Lucifer ;  Mr.  Puffball  steps  up  to  me  just  as  I 
was  measuring  off  some  silk ;  'just  attend  to  her,  will  you,  I'll 
measure  this.'  'I'll  see  you' — but  no  matter  where  I  sent 
him.  I  stood  stock  still,  and  kept  on  measuring.  He  turned 
purple,  but  he  knew  it  wouldn't  be  best  to  interfere  any  fur 
ther  ;  I'd  have  pitched  him  under  the  counter,  among  the 
wrapping  paper.  But  there's  no  use  in  telling  any  more. 
The  upshot  of  it  was,  I  laid  it  thick  on  the  whole  scrape. 
'  You  can  go,'  says  Sharp.  '  Going,'  says  I.  Squared  accounts 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         225 

— took  my  old  coat  under  ray  arm,  and  walked  off.  I'm 
done,  sir,  that's  the  end  of  it.'' 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad,  Mr.  Belden." 

"  You  are,  eh  !  Well,  I  don't  know  but  I  ought  to  feel 
glad  too.  But  it  ain't  every  one,  my  good  fellow,  that  can 
jump  out  of  one  berth  into  another,  as  you  can ;  and  then, 
you  see,  the  pay  stops." 

"  Oh,  but  Mr.  Belden,  I'm  glad  because  I've  got  a  place  all 
ready  for  you ;  a  capital  place  ;  and  if  you  suit,  you  will 
have  a  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

"  Young  man,  who  are  you  ?"  and  Mr.  Belden  looked  at 
him  with  such  an  air  of  amazement  that  Henry  was  obliged 
to  give  way  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter. 

"  Are  you  one  of  those  fellows  that  can  turn  jackstones  into 
guineas  ?  If  you  are,  we'll  be  quit ;  because  your  guineas 
might  go  back  into  jackstones,  just  when  I  wanted  them  the 
most.  None  of  your  tricks." 

"  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Belden,  I'm  in  earnest,  and  have  come 
to  see  you  for  this  very  purpose.  Mr.  Blenham  wants  a  first- 
rate  book-keeper.  I  told  him  about  you ;  how  well  you 
wrote,  and  how  neat  you  was,  and  what  a  steady  man  you 
was,  and  how  saving  you  was  too ;  and  all  about  you ;  and  he 
said  he  should  like  to  have  just  such  a  person,  but  he  would 
not  attempt  to  induce  you  to  leave  your  present  place.  I  told 
him  that  I  did  not  believe  you  would  stay  there  long,  from 
what  I  heard  you  say.  Well,  he  said  I  might  see  how  it 
was,  but  that  everything  must  be  fair,  and  above  board." 

"  You  can  tell  him  that  everything  is  fair  and  over  board. 
I'm  afloat ;  ready  for  a  trip  anywhere,  except  back  to  the  old 
shop — no,  no,  I've  stood  it  long  enough.  But  do  you  think 
I  am  the  man  for  them  ?  Gentlemen,  are  they  ?  Know  how 
to  treat  a  fellow  that  wants  to  do  his  work  right,  and  ready 
night  and  day  to  serve  them." 

"  They  are  gentlemen,  indeed.  Oh,  Mr.  Belden,  I  should 
be  so  happy !  Only  to  think — you  would,  you  know,  tell  me 
how  to  do  things ;  and  if  I  was  going  wrong  at  any  time, 
why,  you  could  give  me  a  hint,  or  tell  me  plainly.  And 
then,  only  to  think  of  the  salary  ;  you  will  be  able  in  a  few 
years  to  pay  off  your  mortgage." 

The  reader  must  not  suppose  that  Mr.  Belden  was  seated 
all  this  while,  composedly  in  his  chair,  and  listening  unmoved 

10* 


226  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

to  these  remarks.  He  had  a  great  deal  to  do  about  the 
room ;  walking  to  and  fro ;  trying  the  angles,  moving  the 
chairs,  losing  his  slippers,  and  running  his  hands  through 
his  hair.  At  length,  having  gone  through  the  various  exer 
cises  which  could  be  conveniently  attended  to  in  a  room  of 
no  great  dimensions,  he  threw  himself  into  his  chair. 

"It's  well  I've  had  a  good  hearty  supper.  Was  ever  a  man — 
You  see,  I  have  been  pretty  well  used,  as  I  told  you,  to  having 
things  go  criss  cross,  and  bottom-side  up;  I  am  used  to  it,  and 
after  the  blow  is  over  I  am  all  right  again ;  but  such  things 
as  this  happening  all  in  a  heep  so — rot  it.  One  would  think 
something  or  somebody  or  other  was  watching  over  me  too. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  I've  done — never  much  good, 
anyhow.  Ain't  given  to  it.  I'm  surly,  snappish,  cross- 
grained — all  doubled  and  twisted  up." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Belden,  Mr.  Belden  you  forget ;  you  was  not 
snappish  nor  cross-grained  when  you  talked  to  me  so  kindly 
one  night  in  the  store ;  nor  when  you  came  so  far  out  of  your 
way  to  see  me,  after  I  had  been  turned  away  by  Mr.  Sharp ; 
nor  when  you  tried  to  cheer  me  up,  and  offered  me  money." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir — drop  it — what  are  you  bringing 
up  that  for  ?  That  wasn't  anything  ;  how  do  you  suppose  I 
was  going  to  eat  my  victuals  in  peace,  or  go  to  bed  in  peace, 
knowing  that  you  a  poor,  lone  boy — rot  it !  don't  you  say 
another  word  about  that,  that  wasn't  anything !" 

"  But  it  was  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Belden ;  you  did  my  heart 
good — you  cheered  me — you  made  me  feel  that  I  was  not 
alone ;  you  helped  the  fatherless,  and  do  you  not  think  that 
God  will  remember  kindly  the  heart  that  feels,  and  the  hand 
that  is  open  to  aid  the  helpless  ?" 

Mr.  Belden  is  again  on  his  feet,  putting  his  coat  on,  and 
feeling  for  his  handkerchief,  and  goes  to  clearing  off  his 
table. 

"  I  will  tell  Mr.  Blenham  then,  Mr.  Belden,  that  you  will 
come  and  see  him  in  the  morning." 

"  Stop,  stop,  stop  ;  where  are  you  going  ?"  and  Mr.  Belden 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  go  now,  sir;  you  will  be  along  in  the 
morning  ?" 

"  That  I  will,  bright  and  early.  But  stop  ;  can't  I  do  some 
thing  for  you  ?  Don't  you  want  anything  ?  Only  to  think 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         227 

of  it — you — a  stranger  too,  toughing  it  along  the  hardest, 
hardly  knowing  where  the  keeping  was  to  come  from,  should 
come  here  to-night  with  such  an  offer  to  me !  There's  a 
kind  of  Providence  in  it ;  that  is,  if  it  wasn't  me,  I  should 
really  think  it  was." 

"  And  why  not  you,  Mr.  Belden  ?  Do  you  not  think  there 
is  an  eye  watching  over  you,  and  a  hand  leading  you,  as  well 
as  others  ?  I  am  sure  there  is  ;  I  know  I  have  asked  that 
many  blessings  might  come  upon  you." 

Mr.  Belden  did  not  reply  ;  he  merely  kept  fast  hold  of 
Henry's  arm,  and  going  with  him  down  stairs,  and  to  the 
street  door,  shook  him  very  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  then 
went  rapidly  back  to  his  room,  blowing  his  nose  on  the  way 
up  most  pertinaciously. 

Henry  had  not  seen  Evart  since  the  eventful  evening 
which  preceded  his  dismissal  from  Messrs.  Sharp,  Catchem 
&  Co.  He  rejoiced  at  what  seemed,  on  the  part  of  his 
friend,  a  wiser  view  of  matters,  and  he  had  some  faint  hope, 
if  Evart  could  be  persuaded  to  break  away  from  his  com 
panions,  and  could  be  induced  to  engage  in  some  useful  em 
ployment,  he  might  yet  be  saved  from  ruin.  But  he  had  no 
idea  that  anything  he  could  say  would  help  to  accomplish 
such  a  desirable  result;  and  as  their  intimacy  hitherto  had 
only  been  attended  with  calamity  to  himself,  he  felt  afraid  of 
renewing  it.  His  own  character  was  yet  to  be  established ; 
he  was  only  on  probation,  and  his  future  well-being  depended 
upon  his  efficiency  and  correct  deportment ;  and  perhaps 
much  of  it  upon  the  good  will  of  those  who  had  taken  him 
under  such  peculiar  circumstances.  He  therefore  resolved 
to  attend  most  strictly  to  their  requests,  and  to  be  governed 
by  their  advice. 

At  times,  his  presence  was  required  most  of  the  evening  in 
the  office,  but  when  not  necessarily  employed  there,  Mr.  Blen- 
ham  had  advised  him  to  spend  his  time  in  reading  or  study. 

"  Our  library  is  at  your  service,  Henry,"  said  the  elder  Mr. 
Blenham  to  him  one  day,  "  and  you  will  find  it  much  for 
your  advantage,  as  you  grow  ojder,  to  have  laid  up  a  good 
stock  of  general  knowledge  from  books,  as  well  as  a  particu 
lar  acquaintance  with  the  routine  of  business.  Now  is  your 
time ;  you  will  be  more  completely  occupied  in  a  few  years, 
and  have  little  opportunity  for  anything  but  business." 


228  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

And  Henry  had  taken  this  advice.  He  had  selected  a  valu 
able  work  on  general  history,  and  he  had  found  a  French 
grammar  and  dictionary,  and  very  much  to  the  gratification 
of  his  employers,  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  in  spending  his 
leisure  evenings  in  this  manner. 

When  Henry  parted  from  his  friend  Belden,  he  had  mado 
up  his  mind  to  stop  for  a  few  moments  at  Evart's.  He  felt 
somewhat  anxious  to  ascertain  whether  the  impression  which 
seemed  to  have  been  made  upon  his  mind  had  been  strong 
enough  to  produce  any  change  in  his  habits. 

As  he  came  to  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  John  street, 
when  within  a  few  feet  of  the  former,  he  recognized 
Evart  in  the  act  of  crossing  John  street,  and  quickened  his 
step  in  order  to  overtake  him,  but  he  soon  perceived  that 
he  was  in  company  with  a  lady  and  gentleman.  The  latter 
was  a  tall  middle  aged  man,  whom  he  never  remembered  to 
have  seen  before,  and  the  lady  was  leaning  on  his  arm,  while 
Evart  walked  by  her  side.  Was  it  possible !  could  it  be ! 
and  yet,  the  form,  the  gait,  and  a  certain  consciousness  for 
which  he  could  not  have  accounted,  assured  him  it  must  be  ! 
Without  pausing  to  reason,  he  acted  almost  by  instinct,  and 
although  they  were  going  up  Broadway,  in  a  direction 
opposite  to  his  place  of  residence,  he  turned  and  followed 
them. 

In  a  few  moments  they  stopped  opposite  a  large  bow  win 
dow,  well  lighted  up,  in  which  were  suspended  some  fine 
paintings,  and  the  tall  gentleman  points  the  young  lady  to 
one  of  the  pictures.  Henry  has  approached  quite  near,  and 
stands  behind  some  of  the  other  gazers  at  the  sights  in  the 
window.  He  has  caught  a  fair  view  of  her  features,  he  hears 
her  voice,  and  he  almost  trembles  as  its  thrilling  tones  reach 
his  ear.  She  is  speaking  to  Evart,  and  Evart  seems  quite 
animated  and  delighted  that  he  can  gain  her  attention  to  the 
particular  objects  of  interest  he  selects  for  her  notice. 

Henry  has  seen  enough — too  much  for  his  peace.  He 
cannot  be  mistaken — it  was  Louise ;  and  she  and  Evart  were 
known  to  each  other,  and  on  intimate  terms.  For  no  con 
sideration  would  he  make  himself  known,  so  he  stepped 
away  from  the  little  crowd  to  avoid  the  possibility  of  a  recog 
nition  by  either  Evart  or  Louise.  Soon  they  do  likewise,  and 
pursue  their  course  up  Broadway.  Awhile  he  stands  and 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.    .     229 

watches  their  progress,  until  they  are  lost  amid  the  multitude, 
and  then  he  turns  and  retraces  his  steps  towards  home.  A 
gre;it  change  has  come  over  his  feelings  since  the  short  period 
of  parting  with  his  friend  Belden.  His  joy  has  been  turned 
into  sadness — his  fine  spirits  have  fled — his  heart  droops — a 
multitude  of  thoughts  crowd  upon  him.  "How  had  Evart 
and  Louise  become  acquainted  ?  Why  had  she  come  to 
the  city  ?"  Did  Evart  know  of  her  peculiar  situation  ?  and 
if  he  did,  would  that  be  to  Evart  an  insurmountable  obstacle  ? 
and  had  Louise  overcome  her  sensitiveness  as  to  that  item  in 
her  being  ?  Perhaps  the  fascination  of  polite  life,  and  the 
charm  of  wealth  may  have  overcome  her  scruples  !  She  was 
older  now,  too,  than  when  he  parted  from  her ;  many  changes 
might  have  taken  place  in  her  circumstances !  Possibly  she 
might  have  found  her  parents.  The  tall  gentleman  he 
had  seen  before,  he  was  sure  he  had,  but  when,  or  where,  he 
could  not  recall." 

Tnat  Evart  was  interested  in  her,  he  could  not  doubt. 
"  Every  action  manifested  it ;  he  was  constantly  addressing 
her  and  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face."  Alas,  poor 
Henry !  He  finds  that  he  has  been  indulging  a  beautiful 
vision,  which  has  proved  "  as  a  dream  when  one  awaketh." 
It  may  not  have  been  in  vain  that  he  indulged  it  ;  for  many 
a  dark  and  weary  hour  has  been  beguiled,  and  a  mighty  stimu 
lus  it  has  been  to  hope  and  courage.  It  has  vanished  now, 
however,  and  he  must  learn  to  work  his  way  unaided  by  any 
of  those  peculiar  hopes  which  hitherto  had  made  his  heart  so 
buoyant. 

Nor  was  this  all.  Hitherto  he  had  been  enabled  to  exercise 
generous  and  noble  sentiments.  He  had  been  ready  to  put 
himself  one  side  from  special  notice,  and  seemed  even  more 
anxious  for  the  happiness  of  his  friends  than  for  his  own.  But 
his  heart  had  never  before  experienced  the  same  test  of  its 
affection.  He  had  loved  Evart,  but  he  had  never  thought  of 
him  as  being  by  any  possibility  a  rival.  Now  the  fine  quali 
ties  which  he  had  gloried  in,  and  boasted  as  peculiar  to  Evart, 
\vere  dimmed  to  his  perception,  or  affected  him  most  strangely 
. — he  did  not  like  to  think  of  them  !  Every  advantage  which 
Evart  possessed  over  himself  created  an  unpleasant  sensation. 
And  even  his  reformation,  for  which  Henry  had  been  so  desir 
ous,  and  for  which  he  had  prayed  so  earnestly,  was  now — we 


230  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

almost  snudder  to  record  it — not  only  a  matter  of  indifference, 
but  almost  a  subject  of  regret,  should  it  prove  to  be  genuine ! 
Alas,  alas !  for  poor  human  nature.  Henry's  self-interest  had 
been  touched  on  a  point  where  he  was  peculiarly  sensitive ; 
and  all  that  is  beautiful  in  his  character  seemed  ready  to  vanish, 
before  the  influence  of  that  hateful  principle.  Happily  for 
him,  the  feelings  which  were  working  forth  their  unhallowed 
results,  were  so  black  and  hideous  that  their  dark  shadows 
began  to  alarm  him.  His  attention  was  drawn  to  them  ;  he 
fixed  his  eye  in  a  steady  gaze  upon  their  deformity.  He 
looked  into  the  fountain  from  whose  source  they  had  sprung, 
and  then  he  saw  the  dark  wing  of  the  Evil  One  hovering  over 
it.  As  the  dove  to  its  covert,  when  the  storm  approacheth, 
so  did  he  fly  for  refuge  to  his  Great  Protector  ;  and  with  his 
Bible  in  his  hand,  and  his  heart  pouring  out  supplications  to 
Heaven,  he  soon  found  relief;  purer  feelings  began  to  gain 
the  ascendency ;  the  foul  object  that  bad  intervened  between 
bis  heart  and  his  God  soon  disappeared.  He  was  hirrfself 
again,  and  with  composure  and  peace  he  resigned  his  will, 
his  destiny,  and  his  heart's  strong  feelings  to  his  Father  in 
heaven.  And  thus,  with  his  noble  spirit  restored  to  purity, 
he  sank  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

HENRY  had  been  kindly  treated  by  the  family  where  for  a 
time  he  had  been  an  inmaCe,  and  although  their  circum 
stances  were  limited,  and  their  situation  in  life  did  not  hold 
out  any  expectation  of  future  benefit  to  him  from  a  continua 
tion  of  intimacy,  he  felt  an  obligation  to  pay  that  respect  to 
them  which  their  kindness  merited.  He  had  learned  thus 
early  in  life  that  the  law  of  love  ought  not  to  be  confined  to 
any  one  condition  of  society,  that  its  beautiful  influence 
stopped  not  at  rank  or  place,  and  that  mere  outward  superi 
ority  should  not  alone  command  either  the  respect  of  the 
heart  or  the  courtesies  of  life. 

Some  time  had  elapsed  since  he  had  suddenly  left  their 
humble  abode,  and  he  feared  they  might  think  he  had  for 
gotten  the  promise  he  made  on  leaving,  "  that  he  would  call 
and  see  them."  He  therefore  asked  and  obtained  leave  to 
spend  an  evening  in  Oliver  street. 

He  was  received  with  great  cordiality  by  both  the  man 
and  his  wife;  and  they  manifested  real  satisfaction  in  hear 
ing  his  recital  of  all  the  pleasant  things  in  his  new  situa 
tion. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  said  Mrs.  Barton,  for  that  was  their 
name,  "  if  you  aint  from  Stratton  ?  I  thought  I  once  heard 
you  say  so." 

"  I  am — that  is,  I  lived  there  some  years." 

''  I  want  to  know  !  Well,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a  person 
there  by  the  name  of  Jeralman  ? — Caroline  Jeralman." 

"  Caroline  Jeralman  !  1  did  know  her — that  is,  I  cannot 
say  that  I  ever  spoke  to  her,  or  she  to  me.  She  lived  some 
distance  from  our  house.  She  lived  in  the  woods,  by  herself. 
I  have  seen  her,  though,  often." 

"  Yes,  that's  the  same.  She  has  seen  you,  I  guess ;  so  she 
says,  or  she  thinks  it  must  be  you  are  the  same.  You  see  I 
was  telling  about  you.  Barton  and  I  often  speak  about  it — 
I  hope  it's  no  offence  to  say  it — but  we  never  had  one  in  our 
house  that  tried  to  give  so  little  trouble  and  seemed  so  satis- 

231 


232  TRUE   TO   TTIE   LAST;    OR, 

tied  and  contented  with  everything,  and  I  must  say  it,  knew 
how  to  behave  like  a  gentleman." 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Barton,  "  we  are  plain,  hardworking 
folks,  but  we  know  when  folks  have  the  right  bringing  up. 
I  work  for  a  great  many  different  people.  Some  are  real 
gentlemen ;  aint  afraid  to  say  '  good  morning'  to  a  poor  man 
when  they  meet  him,  nor  to  use  civil  language  when  they 
ask  him  to  do  a  job  of  work  for  them.  And  then  there  are 
others  that  only  know  him  as  a  poor  devil  that  has  to  work 
hard  for  a  living.  But  I  mark  them  both.  There's  a  deal 
of  difference  in  folks,  I  tell  you." 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Henry,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a  chance 
to  speak,  "  it  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that  you  were 
satisfied  with  me.  I  know  I  have  felt  that  you  were  very 
kind  and  accommodating,  and  that  you  did  not  find  fault  at 
my  leaving  you  so  suddenly,  and  without  giving  you  any 
notice  ;  but  I  could  not  help  it." 

"  Oh,  we  never  thought  a  word  about  that.  We  know 
how  hard  it  is  for  young  men  here  in  the  city  to  get  places, 
and  to  keep  places.  It's  hard  for  everybody  that  has  to  work 
for  a  living.  They  must  watch  their  chances,  and  they  must 
put  up  with  the  whims  and  fancies  of  them  that  has  the 
means.  It  aint  like  the  country  no  way.  But  I  have  got 
clear  off  from  what  I  was  going  to  say,  and  that  was  about 
Caroline.  As  I  was  saying,  Barton  and  I  was  talking  one 
evening  about  you ;  and  Caroline  heard  me  speak  the  name, 
and  says  she,  4 1  wonder  if  he  was  from  Stratton  ?'  Says  I, 
'  I  don't  know  for  certain,  but  I  think  I  heard  him  say  he 
was  from  there,  or  he'd  been  there,  or  something  of  that 
kind  ;'  and  then  she  made  me  tell  her  about  what  kind  of  a 
person  you  was,  and  how  you  looked  ;  and  says  she,  '  I  guess 
it's  him,  and  do  you  know  where  he  lives  or  where  I  could 
find  him?'  'I  don't,'  says  I;  and  then  I  asked  Barton  and 
he  didn't  know ;  but  says  he,  '  The  young  man  will  be  here 
to  see  us  one  of  these  days,  and  I'll  ask  him.'  " 

"  Did  she  want  to  see  me  ?" 

"  She  did,  you  may  depend  on  it ;  but  what  she  wanted 
she  didn't  say.  She  aint  much  given  to  talking,  and  she 
always  seems  to  like  to  keep  things  to  herself." 

"  I  cannot  think  why  she  should  want  to  see  me.  As  I 
have  said,  I  never  spoke  to  her." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        233 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,  hut  some  how  I  got  the  idea  from 
some  things  she  said,  that  you  probably  knew  some  one  that 
she  did,  and  could  tell  her  where  to  find  them.  She  didn't 
say  just  these  words,  but  I  took  that  to  be  her  meaning." 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Barton,  "  she's  an  odd  fish." 

"Oh,  well,  but  Barton,  if  she  is  a  little  odd,  we  never  see 
any  wrong  in  her.  She's  kind-hearted,  and  she's  willing  to 
work;  and  she's  ready  to  help  in  sickness  or  anything;  and 
she  pays  her  own  way  ;  and  I  always  pity  her,  because  she  don't 
take  the  world  easy  ;  she  gets  so  down-spirited  at  times,  and 
says  "  she  wishes  she  had  never  been  born,"  and  all  that.  Now 
a  person  that  feels  so  must  feel  pretty  bad.  I've  seen  hard 
times,  but  I  never  could  say  that." 

"  You  see  my  wife  is  a  very  tender-hearted  woman,  and  she 
thinks  well  of  most  everybody.  All  right,  I  know,  but  I 
don't  mean  to  say  by  that  that  Caroline  has  anything  bad 
about  her,  I  don't  say  that ;  but  I've  tell'd  my  wife  many  times, 
that  it  did  seem  to  me,  '  there  must  be  fire  somewhere  when 
there  was  so  much  smoke.'  Now  it  aint  natural  for  one  to 
be  having  such  low,  dumpish  feelings  if  there  aint  no  cause 
for  it.  But,  as  I  said,  she's  an  odd  fish ;  I  can't  make  her 
out ;  but  I  have  my  opinion." 

"  Oh,  Barton,  you  hadn't  ought  to  be  harboring  them  old 
feelings  when  you  don't  know  nothing  ;  it's  only  guess  work." 

"  May  be  it  is,  but  you  can't  get  it  out  of  me  wife  ;  it's 
there,  and  it  will  stick  there ;  but  I  aint  agoing  to  dispute 
about  it ;  we  aint  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and  we  never  had  ;  I 
always  treat  her  civiiiy,  and  I  always  will ;  but  she's  an  on- 
steady  kind  of  a  person,  going  here  and  there,  and  never 
settling  down  nowhere." 

"  Well,  may  be  she  has  a  reason  for  it." 

"  Maybe  she  has ;  may  be  she  had  a  reason  for  sitting  on 
our  stoop  all  night ;  you  remember  that,  maybe,  wife  ?" 

''  Do,  la,  Barton,  if  you  aint  got  such  a  memory  !  I  wonder 
if  you  lay  up  all  I've  ever  done !" 

"  Yes,  I  do ;  I  lay  it  up  pretty  close ;  I  lay  it  up  how 
you've  worked  and  worried  yourself  to  help  me  along,  and 
how  kind  and  good-natured  you've  been,  and  how  snug 
you've  always  kept  things." 

"  Do  stop,  now,  I  wasn't  meaning  any  such  thing." 

"  I  know  you  wasn't ;  but  I  was,  you  see." 


234  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

"  Now,  Barton,  since  you've  said  what  you  know  about 
Caroline,  just  up  and  tell  the  whole,  because  this  young 
gentleman,  maybe,  will  take  the  idea  that  there  is  something 
dreadful  in  it." 

"  I  don't  know  what  there  was  in  it,  and  I  don't  care  to 
know — yes  I  do,  too,  for  I  should  like  to  have  some  things 
straightened  in  my  mind ;  but  as  to  telling  over  the  whole 
story  I  don't  feel  like  it.  You  know  as  much  about  it  as  I 
do,  and  are  more  used  to  telling  long  stories,  and  so  you  may 
tell  it  if  you  like." 

"  But  you  saw  her  first  in  the  morning." 

"  I  know  that,  and  a  plaguy  start  she  gave  me.  But  I 
shan't  go  on  with  the  story  no  how  ;  you  tell  it  your  own  way  ; 
if  I  should  tell  it,  maybe  I  should  be  putting  in  my  '  opinions,' 
as  you  call  them,  and  then  you'd  take  me  to-do." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  the  young  gentleman  would  care 
to  hear  about  it ;  but,  as  we've  said  so  much  about  Caroline, 
he  maybe  might  be  thinking  there  was  more  in  it  than 
there  is.  It's  a  good  many  years — more  than  twelve  years 
ago" 

"  Yes,  more  than  fifteen." 

"  Oh,  Barton,  aint  you  mistaken  ?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Wasn't  it  when  we  lived  t'other  side  of 
Broadway?  and  didn't  we  move  from  there  in  18 — ?  and 
wasn't  it  the  summer  before  we  moved  to  this  side  of  the 
town  ?" 

"You  are  right,  so  it  was  ;  how  time  does  slip  along;  who 
would  have  thought  it  ? — yes,  it  was  all  of  fifteen  years  ago, 
and  most  sixteen,  I  guess,  one  morning,  very  early — Barton 
always  gets  up  early,  long  before  day,  to  go  out  and  feed  his 
horse  and  cow — we  kept  a  cow  then,  just  as  we  do  now — and 
as  he  opened  the  door,  with  the  lantern  in  his  hand,  he  came 
nigh  tumbling  over  a  girl  that  was  sitting  down  flat  on  the 
steps." 

"It  made  me  start,  I  tell  you." 

"  Says  he, '  good  woman,  what  do  you  want  ?'  with  that  she 
rose  up,  and  he  saw  by  the  lantern  that  she  was  quite  young, 
and  had  a  verv  mild,  pleasant  face ;  she  had  been  crying,  and, 
when  she  tried  to  speak,  she  began  to  cry  again.  '  Come  in,' 
says  he, '  come  in  ;'  and  with  that  he  up  and  calls  me — '  Ma,' 
said  he,  '  come  here" — he  called  me  ma  in  those  days — so  up 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         235 

I  jumps  and  came  out.  '  What  is  it  ?'  says  I.  '  Oh,  Ma'am,' 
says  she,  '  don't  be  displeased  with  me ;  I'm  a  poor  lone  girl, 
that  has  come  to  town  to  look  for  a  place,  and  I've  walked  all 
the  way,  and  got  in  late  at  night,  and  didn't  know  where  to 
go ;  and  as  I  came  down  this  street  I  see  the  gateway  here,' 
— our  house,  you  see,  stood  a  little  back  in  the  yard,  and 
there  was  a  high  board  fence  in  front,  and  the  gate  was  made 
of  slats  so  you  could  see  through  it — 'and  then,'  says  she,  'I 
tried  the  gate,  for  I  thought  if  I  could  only  get  out  of  the 
way  somewhere  it  would  be  better  for  me  than  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  houses  in  the  street  all  night ;  and  I  found  the  gate 
wasn't  fastened,  and  so  I  ventured  to  take  the  liberty  and  come 
and  set  on  your  stoop.'  '  Poor  thing  !'  says  I ;  '  why  didn't 
you  rap  at  the  door  f  '  Oh,'  says  she,  '  I  knew  I  wasn't  in  the 
country,  and  that  people  here  wasn't  used  to  let  strangers  in 
at  night ;  but  if  you  won't  take  offence  at  what  I've  done,  I 
will  thank  you  much,  and  as  soon  as  it's  light  enough  to  be 
stirring  I  will  be  on  my  way.'  '  No,  you  won't,'  says  I,  '  not 
till  you've  had  some  rest  and  a  good  breakfast ;'  and  with 
that  she  went  to  crying  again,  and  I  cried  too,  and  I  guess 
Barton  felt  bad,  for  he  went  off  just  as  if  he'd  been  shot,  to 
feed  the  critters." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  was  younger  then  than  I  be  now,  and 
hadn't  seen  so  much  of  the  deviltry  of  men  and  women  too. 
I  did  feel  bad  ;  I  vow  I  did  ;  but  I  knew  wife  would  take 
good  care  of  her,  and  I  cleared  out ;  but  tell  the  rest  on  it." 

"Oh,  well,  I  have  told  all  that  is  of  any  consequence. 
That  was  the  first  of  our  seeing  Caroline,  and  she  has  always 
remembered  it,  and  she  likes  to  come  here,  and  many  a  good 
turn  she  has  done  for  me  since." 

"  Now,  wife,  I  say,  that  aint  the  end  of  the  story,  no  how. 
Tell  about  the  baby ;  tell  the  whole  on  it,  or  I  will." 

"  Oh,  well,  I'll  tell  what  happened  just  to  please  you  ;  but 
you  musn't  go  to  making  the  young  gentleman  think  it  had 
anything  to  do  with  her  coming  to  our  house.  You  see,  we 
always  sold  milk,  just  as  we  do  now,  to  the  neighbors  round  ; 
well,  we  had  got  through  our  breakfast,  it  was  beginning  to 
be  a  little  light,  and  the  girl  of  a  family  that  lived  right  op 
posite  to  us  came  running  in  for  the  milk — -'  Oh,  Mrs.  Bar 
ton.'  says  she,  '  only  to  think  there's  another  baby  left  down 
in  our  area,  the  dearest,  sweetest  little  thing;  do  come  and 


236  TKTTE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

see  it.'  Barton  had  just  drove  off,  so  I  gets  the  milk  and 
over  I  goes ;  and  of  all  sights  I  ever  beheld,  that  baby 
beat ;  its  cheeks  was  so  rosy,  and  its  little  black  hair  all  of 
a  curl.  'Oh,'  said  I,  'the  wicked  parent  tbat  has  turned 
off  this  blessed  babe  ought  to  be  hung.'  With  that  the 
captain  he  came,  and  he  was  clean  took  with  it,  and  says  he 
to  the  lady,  '  I'll  take  that  baby  if  you  will  find  a  person 
to  tend  it  and  take  care  of  it.'  Says  she,  '  I'll  take  charge 
of  it  myself  if  you  will  hire  a  girl  to  tend  it.'  '  Done  !' 
said  he.  And  then  I  turns  to  Caroline,  and  says  I,  '  here 
might  be  a  place  for  you;  shall  I  speak  for  you?'  'Yes,' 
said  she, '  I  wish  you  would,  for  I  dearly  love  to  tend  children.' 
And  so  I  got  the  place  for  her,  and  there  she  stayed  a 
good  many  years,  and  the  old  folks  are  living  near  and  they'll 
tell  the  same  story." 

Mr.  Barton  looked  at  Henry. 

"  Queer  story,  I  call  that !" 

Henry  did  not  reply ;  there  were  some  things  about  it  that 
sethis  thoughts  in  commotion;  so  Mrs.  Barton  replied  for  him  : 

"  I  don't  believe  the  young  gentleman  thinks  there  is  any 
thing  queer  about  it,  or  out  of  the  way;  such  things  are  very 
common." 

"  It's  queer,  for  all  that." 

•'  Mrs.  Barton,"  said  Henry,  "  what  was  the  name  of  the 
gentleman  who  adopted  the  child  ?" 

"  Lovelace — Captain  Lovelace.  A  fine  man — rich  too ;  and 
I've  heard  it  said  that  he's  dead,  and  that  he'd  left  all  his 
property  to  that  child ;  but  whether  it  is  true,  or  whether  he's 
living,  or  she's  living,  we  don't  know." 

Henry  asked  again — "  Does  Caroline  live  near  by  ?" 

"Only  a  few  doors  off;  she  is  in  here,  though,  'most  every 
day.  You  see,  she  takes  in  sewing  from  the  shops,  and  I 
guess  she  makes  a  decent  living;  she  always  seems  to  have 
enough  to  do  with  ;  she  pays  her  board  regular,  and  every 
thing  looks  snug  about  her ;  but  what  makes  her  so  down 
hearted  there's  no  telling." 

"  There's  guessing,  though." 

"  Now  Barton,  stop  ;  you  don't  know,  and  can't  say." 

"  I  can't  help  thinking,  and  I  always  have  been  thinking ; 
as  I  said  at  first,  smoke  comes  because  there's  fire  somewhere. 
If  she  hadn't  something  to  do  with  that" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         237 

"  Now  Barton,  hush  ;  it's  wicked  in  you." 

"Can't  help  it." 

"  Mrs.  Barton,"  said  Henry,  rising  and  handing  a  slip  of 
paper  to  her,  •'  if  Caroline  should  want  to  see  me,  I  am  to  be 
found  at  that  number  in  Pearl  street,"  and  thanking  them  for 
all  their  kindness,  he  took  his  leave. 

The  recital  to  which  Henry  had  been  listening  was  indeed 
to  him  a  matter  of  deep  interest.  That  he  had  learned  the 
particular  history  of  Louise,  he  had  no  doubt ;  hitherto  he 
had  only  known  the  bare  fact,  as  she  herself  had  related  it. 
That  there  had  ever  been  any  connection  in  her  history  with 
Caroline  Jeralman,  was  entirely  new  to  him ;  and  the  hints 
which  were  thrown  out  by  Mr.  Barton,  did  not  tend  to  en 
lighten  him  very  pleasantly.  For  what,  too,  should  Caroline 
wish  to  see  him?  He  should  be  glad  to  know.  And  he 
should  be  glad  to  have  an  interview  with  her.  His  curiosity 
was  greatly  excited.  What  if,  in  some  way,  he  should  be  the 
means  of  discovering  for  Louise  the  great  secret  of  her  parent 
age  !  But  if  that  discovery  should  only  confirm  her  worst 
fears,  of  what  avail  would  it  be  to  her,  or  to  him  ? 

These  conflicting  emotions  beguiled  him  through  his  long 
walk;  but  that  the  conclusions  at  which  he  arrived  were 
agreeable,  we  cannot  pretend  to  say.  At  his  age  the  romance 
of  life  has  great  power.  The  conventionalities  of  the  social 
system  are  not  justly  estimated ;  they  are  rather  looked  upon 
as  arbitrary — sometimes  oppressive.  "  What  right  have  they 
to  disturb  the  peace  of  two  loving  hearts?  What  has  rank 
or  station  in  life,  or  even  parentage,  to  do  with  love  ?  He 
could  take  his  Louise,  and  never  for  one  moment  allow  a 
thought  beyond  her  own  dear  self  to  trouble  him  or  her. 
His  parents  were  in  the  grave,  and  hers  unknown ;  and  why 
not  let  it  thus  be  ?  Could  they  not  be  all  the  world  to  each 
other?"  But  what  if  another  heart  had  won  her  confidence 
and  love  ?  "  He  would  even  then  care  for  her — be  ready  to 
serve  her;  and  if  she  could  be  more  happy  with  Evart,  so  let 
it  be.  He  would  love  Evart  too  !"  Very  noble  and  generous 
thoughts,  these — much  better  than  Henry  had  sometimes 
indulged. 

Mr.  Belden  was  still  in  the  office  when  Henry  returned ; 
he  had  finished  his  labors  for  the  day,  and  was  amusing  him 
self  with  an  evening  paper.  Mr.  Belden's  appearance  had 


233  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  J   OE, 

altered  much  for  the  better,  since  he  had  acquired  his  new 
situation.  He  kept  himself  much  more  trim  ;  his  hair  had 
none  of  that  wild,  tangled  look,  as  when  he  sat  perched  up  by 
himself  in  his  cupboard  at  Messrs.  Sharp,  Catchem  &  Co.VT  it 
lay  quite  smooth  and  orderly.  The  old  green  coat,  too,  was 
laid  aside,  and  his  whole  exterior,  even  to  the  matter  of  shav 
ing  and  linen,  was  punctiliously  attended  to.  It  was  very 
evident  that  Mr.  Belden  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  different 
atmosphere — one  more  healthful  and  invigorating,  and  where 
appearance  and  manners  of  the  gentleman  seemed  in  place. 

Mr.  Belden  laid  aside  his  paper  as  Henry  entered,  fixing 
his  eye  steadily  upon  him  for  a  moment. 

"  Where  been  ?" 

"  I  have  been  to  make  a  call  on  the  good  people  in  Oliver 
street.  They  treated  me  so  kindly  when  I  lived  there,  I 
thought  I  must  go  and  see  them." 

"All  right — stick  to  old  friends,  I  say,  black  or  white,  cart- 
men,  washerwomen,  milkmen,  or  hod-carriers !  You  are  a 
queer  fellow  about  friends,  though — seem  to  have  some  of  all 
sorts — been  two  here  to-night." 

"  Two !     Who  were  they,  Mr.  Belden  ?" 

"  Don't  look  so  wild  and  frightened.  Patience,  man ;  I'll 
tell  you  directly.  Take  one  at  a  time.  First  of  all  comes  in 
a  tall,  spruce  gentlemanly  fellow ;  smooth  face — shiny,  good 
large  mouth,  square  chin ;  looks  round  a  moment,  and  Mr. 
Blenham,  junior,  jumps  up.  '  How  are  you,  Harry  ?'  '  How 
are  you,  James  ?' — both  speaking  at  once,  and  then  there  was 
a  great  to  do  with  shaking  hands,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
That  over,  chairs  placed  to  sit  down.  '  Can't — can't  stop  a 
moment — family  expecting  him,'  and  so  on  ;  '  only  called  to 
inquire  for  a  young  man  whom  he  accidentally  learned  lived 
there — Henry  Thornton.'  All  right.  'Is  he  in?'  'Asked 
permission  to  go  out  this  evening''  I  tell  you  what,  young 
man,  it  took  a  load  off  my  shoulders  to  hear  that  '  asked  per 
mission.'  Don't  you  never  stir  finger  or  foot  in  this  place 
without  permission.  You've  got,  by  some  hocus-pocus  or  other, 
into  one  of  the  most — most  desirable  situations  in  this  city, 
and  you've  got  me  here  too :  be  careful ;  feel  as  if  there  were 
eggs  laying  all  about  you — you  might  break  'em.  Well,  to 
go  on  with  the  story.  'Sorry,'  said  the  gent, '  not  to  see  him. 
Please  give  him  this  card,  and  when  you  can  spare  him  some 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         239 

evening,  ask  him  to  give  me  a  call.'  'Certainly.'  All  right — 
shake  hands  again — gent  walks  off.  Blenham,  junior,  hands 
me  the  card.  '  Mr.  Belden,  please  give  this  to  Henry,  and 
say  to  him,  that  any  evening  when  you  can  spare  him,  he  can 
make  the  call." 

And  stepping  to  the  desk,  Mr.  Belden  caught  up  the  card 
and  handed  it  to  the  bewildered  youth. 

"  James  Vernon,  Walker  street.  Who  can  it  be,  Mr.  Bel 
den  ?  I  do  not  know  any  such  person." 

"  Don't  ask  me  ;  but  for — for  all  that's  lucky  go  and  see 
him  ;  there's  no  telling  what  will  come  of  it.  Maybe  you'll 
be  whipped  off  and  made  president  of  a  bank ;  it  wouldn't  be 
any  more  surprising  than  to  be  kicked  out  of  Sharp  & 
Catchem's  as  we've  been  and  land  here.  That's  the  end  of 
that  chapter.  You've  got  the  card — all  right.  Now  we'll 
begin  the  second  lesson." 

"  Another  rap  at  the  office  door.  Mr.  Blenham  Junor  gone 
off  all  alone  this  trip.  '  Come  in.'  My  eyes !  If  my  hair 
didn't  most  rise  up.  In  walks  the  young  chap  you  shook 
hands  with  one  day  at  Sharp  &  Catchem's,  and  who  caused 
you  all  that  rumpus.  Thinks  I,  '  my  young  fellow,  you've 
come  into  the  wrong  shop ;  but  I'm  glad  you're  come  now, 
Joe  Belden  will  be  ready  for  you.'  '  Is  Henry  Thornton  in  ?' 
'  He  is  not,  sir.'  '  In  soon  ?'  '  Can't  say.'  '  I'm  sorry.'  '  I 
ain't,'  says  I ;  but  I  said  it  to  myself.  Looked  at  the  chair, 
as  if'he  wished  to  sit  down.  '  You  don't  do  it,'  thinks  I,  with 
my  leave.  'Is  this  Mr.  Blenham?'  '  Not  exactly,'  says  I; 
'  another  kind  of  a  man.'  Only  to  think !  Never  taken  for 
principal  at  Sharp  &  Catchem's.  '  Be  kind  enough  to  de 
liver  a  message  to  Henry  Thornton  ?'  '  Depends  upon  what 
kind  of  a'message  it  is.'  '  Very  anxious  to  see  Mr.  Thorn 
ton  ;  please  ask  him  to  call  at  my  house,  Mr.  Marston,  Cort- 
landt  street,  or  if  he  will  let  me  know  when  he  can  see  me 
here,  will  be  happy  to  call  on  him.'  Thinks  I,  '  that's  most 
too  bad  ;  you've  ousted  him  out  of  one  place,  and  like  to 
have  been  the  ruin  of  him,  and  now  when  he  is  all  fair  and 
square,  in  good  quarters,  you're  after  him  again  ;  but  you 
won't  get  him  if  Joe  Belden  can  hold  on  to  his  coat-flaps.' " 

"  Oh,  but  Mr.  Belden  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir."  Says  I,  '  Young  gentleman,'  I 
spoke  civil,  though  I  felt  gritty,  '  a  young  man  in  this  city, 


24:0  TKTJE   TO   THE   LAST  ;    OK, 

who  has  to  look  out  for  his  own  fodder,  and  no  friends  to  do 
for  him,  and  nothing  under  the  blue  sky  to  depend  upon  but 
his  fair  character,  and  his  correct  deportment,  has  to  be 
pretty  shy 'what  company  he  keeps.'  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Belden  !" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  say,  hear  me  through.  With  that  he 
colored,  dark  red,  I  tell  you.  Thinks  I,  '  the  fire's  kindled, 
the  spark  is  struck ;  look  out  for  blazes.'  He  trembled 
about  the  lips  a  little,  I  see,  and  kept  swallowing.  'Bitter; 
ain't  it,'  thinks  I.  '  You  are  a  stranger  to  me,  sir.'  Said  he, 
'  but  I  believe,  from  what  you  say,  that  you  are  a  friend  of 
Henry  Thornton.'  '  I  am,'  said  I,  '  body  and  soul — reason  to 
be — he's  a  noble  young  fellow,  too  good  to  be  spoiled.'  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Belden  !  why  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  I  tell  you,  and  hear  me  through,  and 
then  jabber  away  as  much  as  you  please.  '  Well,  sir,'  said 
he,  '  I  am  glad  he  has  a  friend  fearless  enough  to  step  before 
him  as  a  guard  against  any  that  might  injure  him.  I  have 
not  been  aware  before  a  few  hours  since,  that  it  was  in  con 
sequence  of  my  improper  conduct  that  he  lost  his  place  ;  and 
I  assure  you,  sir,  it  gave  me  exquisite  pain  until  I  learned 
through  the  same  source  that  he  had  obtained  a  much  better 
situation.'  '  Fact,'  says  I,  '  fact ;  no  doubt  of  that ;  but  how 
he  got  it,  you  see,  is  all  whimble-whamble  to  me,  beyond  my 
comprehension.'  '  I  expect,'  says  he,  '  Henry  serves  one  who 
has  his  eye  upon  the  stranger  and  the  fatherless.' " 

"  Did  he  say  so,  Mr.  Belden — oh  !" 

"  Drat  it !  hush  ;  you  keep  a  talking  so  !"  and  Mr.  Belden 
had  to  use  his  handkerchief,  and  move  round  a  little  before 
he  could  go  on  again.  '  Tell  Henry  for  me,'  said  he,  '  that  old 
things  have  passed  away,  and  I  hope ' — rot  it  !  stop  looking 
so" 

Henry  was  not  only  looking  but  trying  to  dry  away  the 
big  tears  which  had  started  as  by  electricity  when  these 
words  were  spoken. 

"  How  do  you  think  a  fellow  can  go  on  with  his  story  and 
you  blubbering  all  the  time.  You  see,  I've  been  in  boiling 
hot  water  to-night,  and  cooled  off  rather  the  quickest,  till 
I'm  all  like  a  jelly — can't  stand  alone ;  no  chance  to  be 
mad,  nor  to  kick,  nor  do  nothing  ;  hard  up  now." 

"  I'm  so  happy  to  hear  him  speak  so." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         241 

"  You  are,  eh  ?  Well,  hear  the  rest,  then.  4  Tell  Henry 
for  me,  that  T  wish  to  see  him,  that  I  may  thank  him  for  the 

good  he  has  done  me ;  and  I  think  I  can  convince  him ' 

rot  it !  stop  now  ;  '  convince  him  that  he  has  saved  his -friend 
from  ruin.  And  will  you  be  so  good,  sir,  as  to  hand  him 
this  account ;  tell  him  I  knew  not  until  to-day  that  it  was 
unsettled.  And  also  this  bill  for  twenty  dollars,  and  tell  him 
that  too  had  slipped  my  mind.'  '  Glad — glad,'  said  I,  '  happy 
to  do  so.'  '  And  here  is  a  small  article  I  wish  to  return  to 
him  ;  but  with  your  leave  I  will  inclose  it  in  some  paper  ;  it 
is  more  valuable  than  that  bank-note  one  hundred  times  over 
— at  least  it  has  been  so  to  me.'  '  Happy  to  accommodate ;' 
handed  the  paper,  folded  carefully ;  '  all  right.'  '  Good  even 
ing,  sir.'  '  Stop,'  says  I,  '  a  word  to  say  :  suppose  I  spoke 
hasty.'  '  Not  at  all,  not  at  all ;  you  have  proved  yourself  to 
be  a  good  friend  to  Henry,  and  I  rejoice  that  he  has  such  a 
one  so  near  him.'  '  No  offence  taken  then  ?'  '  Not  in  the 
least,  sir,  but  should  be  very  happy  to  be  further  acquainted ; 
good  evening,  sir.'  '  Not  yet — hold  on,'  said  I :  '  about  that 
thing  you  folded  up  so  carefully — curious  to  see  it — secret  ?' 
'  Oh,  no  ;  open  it  by  all  means  ;  read  it,  and  may  God  bless 

it  to  you,  as  I  hope  he  has  to  me' Broke  all  down  at 

that  corner  ;  couldn't  go  no  further  ;  all  wound  up  ;  tears  in 
his  eyes ;  lips  shaky.  A  good  squeeze  of  the  hand — he  was 
off.  There,  that's  all ;  rot  it,  what  ails  you  ?" 

Mr.  Belden  had  belter  have  asked  what  ailed  himself,  for 
by  rehearsing  the  scene,  feelings  were  aroused  that  had  been 
previously  much  excited,  and  he  had  to  stammer  and  sputter 
and  work  himself  into  all  shapes  to  get  through  the  story. 


11 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EVART  had  become  now  quite  a  constant  visitor  at  Mr. 
Vernon's,  and  he  found  the  void  occasioned  by  the  loss  of 
his  former  companions  more  than  filled  by  the  agreeable 
entertainment  in  the  family  circle  of  that  gentleman.  He 
had  put  himself  under  an  instructor  in  the  classics  and  in 
French,  and  was  also  pursuing  a  regular  course  of  historical 
reading.  Mr.  Vernon  had  also  expressed  the  opinion,  that  in 
the  course  of  a  year  or  two  a  journey  through  Europe,  under 
the  direction  of  some  judicious  person  as  travelling  companion, 
would  be  very  desirable,  before  settling  down  to  any  regular 
business.  And  Evart  cordially  approved  of  such  a  plan,  and 
was  applying  himself  with  great  diligence  to  his  various 
studies,  no  doubt  stimulated  by  the  pleasant  prospect  ahead. 
And  this  was  one  important  object  Mr.  Vernon  had  in  view 
when  he  gave  such  advice.  He  knew  how  necessary  it  was 
for  the  youthful  mind  to  have  some  alluring  object  before  it, 
to  be  accomplished  by  present  application ;  and  especially  he 
knew  this  to  be  true  in  Evart's  case.  The  mere  making  of 
money  could  of  itself  be  no  very  strong  motive  for  labor 
with  one  who  had  enough  already ;  and  he  had  received  no 
early  training  calculated  to  create  a  taste  for  study  or  im 
provement  for  its  own  sake.  If  his  mind  could  be  stimulated, 
by  some  attractive  object  ahead,  to  present  application,  he 
had  no  doubt  a  habit  would  not  only  be  formed,  itself  of  great 
value,  but  a  taste  acquired  that  would  in  time  accomplish  all 
that  was  necessary. 

Evart  was  now  in  the  critical  pass  between  youth  and 
manhood — a  transition  state  in  which  there  is  much  unrest. 
And  while  crude  notions  of  what  would  be  for  their  best 
good  are  entertained,  these  seem  very  important,  and  must  by 
all  means  be  carried  out.  This  dangerous  spot  in  his  life 
safely  passed,  Mr.  Vernon  well  knew  that  maturer  judgment 
and  clearer  views  would  enable  the  young  man  to  decide 
more  understandingly  as  to  his  life's  business. 

Neither  had  this  good  friend  lost  sight  of  the  one  great 

Ml 


TRTTE   TO    THE    LAST.  243 

subject  about  which  we  have  seen  he  gave  him  a  gentle  hint. 
It  was  not  his  way  to  obtrude  religious  teaching  under  any 
circumstances,  but  watched  his  opportunity  to  drop  a  word 
or  thought  in  apparently  an  accidental  way.  He  preferred 
to  allow  the  great  subject  to  cdme  along  naturally,  and  to  be 
sought  after  by  the  young  inquirer,  rather  than  to  be  forward 
in  prying  into  their  sacred  feelings.  Evart  never  was  appre 
hensive  of  being  catechised  when  alone  with  Mr.  Vernon, 
and  therefore  felt  no  restraint.  And  whenever  he  asked  a 
question  having  relation  to  such  a  delicate  matter,  he  knew 
it  would  lead  to  nothing  further  than  a  clear  and  definite 
reply  ;  he  would  not  be  put  through  a  course  of  questions  in 
reference  to  those  feelings  which  seemed  to  him  too  sacred  to 
be  revealed  to  any  human  ear. 

Well  would  it  be  if  all  who  have  a  desire  to  be  useful,  and 
constitute  themselves  spiritual  advisers  of  others,  whether 
clergymen  or  laymen,  had  a  little  more  delicacy  of  feeling 
and  a  little  more  common  sense  in  their  dealings  with  those 
into  whose  minds  the  holy  light  is  beginning  to  beam.  Man 
often  mars  but  seldom  aids  the  mighty  work.  Much  too 
often  some  system  of  doctrines,  too  deep  for  even  an  angel's 
comprehension,  is  brought  to  bear  upon  the  tender  con 
science.  "  This  is  the  path  ;  up  these  gradings  you  must  go, 
or  be  lost !"  "  To  this  dogma  you  must  assent,  no  matter  if 
it  brings  a  forbidding  cloud  before  the  face  of  Him  you  are 
feeling  after ;  to  such  a  state  of  mind  you  must,  arrive,  or 
presume  not  to  hope."  Blind  leaders  are  such,  with  little 
knowledge  of  the  word  of  God,  using  it  only  as  a  text-book 
in  which  to  find  passages  that  may  sustain  their  theories,  or 
from  whence  to  select  a  heading  for  their  sermons ;  and  with 
a  stock  of  general  knowledge  too  scanty  to  give  them  ease  in 
the  society  of  even  men  of  common  reading,  they  go  forth 
from  the  schools  where  they  have  been  helped  to  stumble 
along  through  their  two  years'  course,  and  are  palmed  upon 
the  world  as  ministers  of  Christ. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  not  learned  his  religion  from  the  books. 
The  Bible  was  his  alpha  and  omega  in  all  that  concerned  his 
relation  to  God.  From  its  blessed  pages  he  had  drawn  all 
the  consolation  which  his  spirit  enjoyed.  On  the  infinite 
atonement  there  revealed  he  rested  his  hope ;  its  freeness  and 
fullness  he  could  portray  in  its  own  burning  language,  and 


24:4  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

he  knew  just  where  to  point  the  inquiring  mind  for  light  and 
peace. 

As  Evart  had  asked  instruction,  it  had  been  given  him ; 
a  little  at  a  time.  And  his  inquiries*  gave  Mr.  Vernon  reason 
to  believe  that  he  was  being  influenced  by  a  divine  agency  ; 
that  his  young  heart  was  turning  its  affections  towards  his 
great  unseen  Friend.  It  gave  him  great  joy,  but  he  made 
no  communication  on  the  subject  to  any  human  being,  nor 
did  he  let  Evart  know  what  he  himself  believed.  He  well 
knew,  if  Evart  was  a  subject  of  divine  grace,  light  would 
break  in  upon  him  :  perhaps  by  no  sudden  flash,  but  like  the 
coming  morn,  faint  streaks  at  first,  but "  brighter  and  brighter 
to  the  perfect  day." 

He  was  not  anxious  either  that  his  young  friend  should  be 
filled  with  ecstatic  joy,  but  rather  pointed  him  to  the  great 
duties  to  be  performed,  to  the  spirituality  of  God's  commands, 
and  to  the  necessity  of  cultivating  the  Christian  graces. 
Peace  would  naturally  follow  such  a  course,  and  it  would  be 
a  peace  not  easily  disturbed.  He  knew  that  a  youth  situated 
as  Evart  was,  with  wealth  at  his  command,  and,  as  a  natural 
consequence,  thrown  among  a  class  where  he  would  find  few 
of  his  own  age  to  encourage  him  by  their  sympathies  in  a 
religious  course,  he  would  need  to  be  thoroughly  imbued 
with  the  spirit  of  piety,  and  have  his  principles  of  action 
based  upon  a  foundation  strong  and  enduring.  And  such  a 
character,  without  a  miracle,  could  not  be  formed  in  a  day ; 
like  all  great  works,  it  would  need  time  and  careful  nur 
ture. 

Evart  had  broken  from  his  former  associates,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  although  friendly  salutations  always  passed 
between  them  when  they  met.  He  no  longer  visited  their 
haunts  of  pleasure.  His  fast  horse  had  been  disposed  of, 
and  Evart  himself  was  no  more  seen  mingling  with  the  furious 
drivers  on  the  road  to  Cato's.  He  chose  more  quiet  avenues 
for  the  occasional  rides  he  took  with  his  mother  or  sister,  and 
seemed  to  enjoy,  as  they  had  never  remarked  before,  the 
beautiful  scenery  of  their  lovely  island.  And  as  the  winter 
had  passed,  and  the  spring  in  its  beauty  was  bursting  forth, 
he  was  particularly  partial  to  these  rides  at  the  early  morn 
ing.  There  was  no  languor  in  body  or  mind,  now,  when  he 
awoke  from  his  night's  repose.  Fresh  as  the  new  day  were 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         245 

his  feelings,  and  every  ray  from  nature  kindled  a  joy  within. 
A  sweet  harmony  was  established  between  his  heart  and  the 
world  which  God  had  made.  He  knew  not  how  it  had  come 
about,  and  perhaps  thought  not  that  change  in  him  had  been 
the  cause;  he  only  wondered  why  he  had  never  before  taken 
delight  in  the  fields  and  the  flowers,  the  hills,  and  rocks,  and 
valleys,  the  sparkling  rivers  and  the  changing  sky. 

Mrs.  Marston  had  noticed,  with  some  satisfaction,  that  Evart 
had  become  more  regular  in  his  habits;  his  place  was  never 
empty  at  the  table,  nor  was  his  chair  vacant  in  the  evening 
circle,  except  for  a  visit  to  Mr.  Vernon's.  Why  he  seemed  so 
fond  now  of  the  society  of  that  gentleman,  she  did  not  know ; 
but  she  felt  that  perhaps  it  was  as  well  for  him  to  be  on  inti 
mate  terms  with  one  of  so  stable  a  character  and  so  generally 
respected.  Mrs.  Marston,  though,  did  not  fancy  altogether 
this  exclusiveness ;  there  were  some  things  which  did  not,  to 
her,  appear  quite  natural.  His  former  associates  seldom 
called  upon  him,  and  Evart  had  evidently  lost  all  relish  for 
their  society ;  he  had  also  abstained  from  theatrical  amuse 
ments,  and  although  she  had  herself,  of  late  years,  but  seldom 
partaken  of  them,  it  appeared  to  her  very  unusual  for  a  young 
man  like  Evart  to  lose  all  desire  that  way ;  and  although  she 
many  times  had  fears  lest  he  was  going  too  far  and  too  fast 
in  his  pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  often  had  said  she  wished  he 
might  be  more  at  home,  and  more  disposed  to  some  kind  of 
business,  yet  that  he  should  make  so  great  a  change,  and  con 
fine  himself  so  assiduously  to  his  studies,  was  a  little  further 
in  the  right  direction  than  she  really  thought  was  best.  The 
good  lady  did  not  want  her  son  to  be  ruined ;  but  she  was 
willing  to  have  him  go  to  the  very  edge  of  the  precipice,  and 
trust  to  chance  that  he  might  not  slip  off. 

Seeing  how  matters  were  going,  and  fearftd  lest  his  youthful 
spirits  might  be  endangered  by  too  strict  a  course  of  daily 
duties,  the  good  mother,  much  to  the  surprise  of  Evart,  came 
one  day  into  his  room,  and  proposed  that  he  should  go  and 
buy  tickets  for  them  for  the  evening. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  she,  "  as  if  T  should  like  to  hear 
Cooper  once  more." 

Evart  was  indeed  surprised,  for  he  thought  his  mother,  long 
since,  had  lost  all  relish  for  such  scenes ;  and  perhaps  he 
manifested  his  feelings  in  the  look  he  gave  her,  for  she  at 
once  said — 


246  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

"  You  have  no  objections,  I  suppose,  Evart,  to  wait  upon 
me  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  by  no  means,  mamma ;  I  will  go,  certainly,  and  pur 
chase  tickets." 

"  And  do  you  not  think,  Evart,  it  would  be  better  for  you 
to  wait  upon  Ellen  to  the  publics,  than  to  allow  her  to  depend 
upon  other  young  gentlemen  ?" 

"  By  all  means,  mamma ;  I  have  waited  upon  her,  and  am 
perfectly  willing  to  do  so." 

"I  know  you  have;  but  some  one  has  told  her — I  know 
not  who,  except  it  be  Tom  Lovell — that  you  have  become 
so  strict  about  such  matters  that  you  thought  them  wrong, 
and  therefore  she  has  accepted  Tom's  invitation  for  to-morrow 
evening,  because  she  did  not  wish  you  to  go  against  your  will. 
And,  she  says,  the  last  public  you  attended  with  her,  you 
scarcely  danced  all  the  evening,  and  only  when  you  were  fairly 
forced  into  it." 

Evart  was  conscious  that  this  was  true ;  but  he  had  not 
supposed  it  had  been  noticed. 

"  It  may  have  been  true,  mamma,  that  I  manifested  an  un 
willingness  to  dance  that  evening ;  I  remember,  I  did  not  feel 
much  in  the  humor  for  it;  but  I  certainly  regret  that  Ellen 
has  felt  it  necessary,  on  that  account,  to  allow  Tom  Lovell  to 
take  my  place.  Indeed,  mamma,  he  is  not  one  that  I  wish  her 
to  accept  such  attentions  from." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  Tom  is  as  good  as  most  of  the  young 
men,  Evart ;  he  is  young  yet,  you  know,  and  may  be  a  little 
wild ;  but  he  has  a  very  good  heart,  and  he  is  so  good-natured 
and  civil !  Young  folks  cannot  be  expected  to  be  always 
sober  as  old  people ;  it  is  not  natural.  If  there  is  nothing 
bad  about  them,  a  little  frolic,  once  in  a  while,  is  no  more 
than  must  be  looked  for." 

Evart,  however,  had  reason  to  fear  that  the  case  of  his  old 
friend,  Tom  Lovell,  had  been  placed  in  rather  too  fair  a  light. 
He  feared  Torn  had  no  regard  to  any  moral  principles,  and 
would,  before  many  years,  be  a  confirmed  debauchee  ;  and  he 
was  much  concerned  that  his  sister  should  have  taken  such  a 
step  without  consulting  him.  It  was  too  late,  now,  to  reverse 
the  matter. 

"  I  shall  certainly,  mamma,  not  allow  Ellen  to  be  waited  upon 
alone  by  Lovell :  I  shall  accompany  them.  If  she  .chooses  to 
dance  with  him,  of  course  I  cannot  help  that." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,   WEDE  SEA.  247 

"  Of  course  not !  How  could  you,  Evart  ?  Why  should 
you  ?  Tom  Lovell  is  certainly  a  young  gentleman,  of  as  good 
family  as  our  own,  and  he  stands  as  fair,  for  aught  I  know, 
as  any  young  man  of  his  age,  I  really  fear,  Evart,  that  in 
some  way,  you  are  getting  very  strange  notions.  I  do  not 
know  who  has  put  them  there.  If  it  is  Henry  Thornton,  I 
shall  almost  regret  that  we  invited  him  to  stay  here." 

"  My  dear  mamma,  whatever  you  regret  in  reference  to  me, 
never,  I  beg  of  you,  regret  that  Henry  has  been  an  inmate 
of  our  family ;  he  has  brought  a  blessing  with  him ;  he  has 
been  the  means,  I  frankly  allow,  and  shall  ever  remember  it 
to  my  dying  day — of  opening  my  eyes  to  see  the  danger  of 
the  road  I  was  travelling,  and  of  showing  me  a  better,  a  safer, 
a  happier  path.  His  friendship  I  prize  now  as  I  have  never 
before,  because  I  did  not  know  before  what  it  was  to  have  a 
true  friend.  To  have  one  who,  at  the  risk  of  his  own  good 
name,  would  interpose  between  me  and  harm,  and  at  the  same 
time  feared  not  to  tell  me  of  my  faults,  in  such  a  way  that  I 
could  see  them  without  reproaching  him  as  a  censor ;  but 
never  one  word  has  he  spoken  against  a  companion  of  mine. 
He  is  above  all  such  littleness ;  his  principles,  I  know,  are 
based  upon  rules  that  come  from  heaven.  He  has  saved  your 
Evart,  dear  mamma,  from  dangers  you  knew  not  I  was  ex 
posed  to." 

Mrs.  Marston  was  not  prepared  for  this.  "  What  had  hap 
pened  ?  Was  Evart  in  his  right  mind  ?"  But  he  appeared 
perfectly  self-possessed  ;  the  tones  of  his  voice  were  mild,  and 
his  manner  respectful  and  affectionate,  much  more  so  than 
ever  before ;  she  almost  resolved  to  relinquish  her  plan  of 
visiting  the  theatre  ;  but  having  expressed  the  wish,  she  would 
not  just  then  recall  her  words.  At  present  she  did  not  feel 
like  continuing  the  subject  they  had  been  upon,  and,  after  a 
few  remarks  upon  some  family  matters,  she  retired,  and  Evart 
being  left  to  his  own  reflections,  his  mind  at  once  reverted  to 
what  had  been  mentioned  respecting  Lovell  and  his  sister 
Ellen. 

He  had  never  before  thought  much  of  Tom's  attendance 
upon  his  sister,  being  so  intimate  in  their  family  relations, 
his  own  boon  companion,  and  Ellen  yet  so  young  !  But  now 
he  wondered  that  he  had  never  before  considered  seriously 
of  this  matter.  Surely  he  was  not  conscious  of  any  want  of 


248  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

affection  for  her ;  why  then  had  he  been  so  indifferent  as  to 
the  character  of  those  who  waited  upon  her  ?  How  could  he 
bear  to  see  his  fair  sister,  pure  as  the  morning  air,  in  close 
contact  with  one  who  regarded  female  virtue  as  of  little  worth, 
and  whom,  he  had  every  reason  to  believe,  even  from  his  own 
confession,  had  no  scruples  in  mingling  with  those  who  had 
no  character  to  lose.  He  had  never  thought  of  this  before  ! 
What  an  outrage  it  seemed  to  him  that  such  persons  should 
dare  to  thrust  themselves  into  circles  where  lovely  females 
congregate,  and  where  their  rank  as  gentlemen  gave  them 
the  privilege  of  asking  in  the  dance  any  whom  they  might 
fancy. 

But  Evart  was  yet  a  tyro  in  the  affairs  of  life.  He  was  yet 
free  from  any  gross  stain — his  heart  unsoiled ;  he  had  indulged 
in  gaiety,  but  never  had  ventured  within  the  vortex  of  pol 
lution,  and  he  now  shrank  with  horror,  as  he  looked  back  and 
saw  how  very  near  he  had  been  to  the  deceitful  waters.  "But 
his  sister !  How  could  he  permit  her  to  mingle  with  those 
whom  he  felt  were  not  safe  companions  for  himself?" 

These  thoughts  troubled  him  awhile  ;  he  knew  not  that  he 
could  place  things  in  a  right  position,  but  he  resolved  to  be 
more  careful  for  the  future,  that  she  who  had  a  right  to  his 
attentions  should  never  feel  compelled  to  look  beyond  her 
brother,  in  all  matters  where  a  gentleman's  presence  or  aid 
was  required,  and  with  this  feeling  he  at  once  arose  and  pre 
pared  to  go  out  in  order  to  purchase  the  tickets  for  the  even 
ing,  as  his  mother  had  requested. 

On  his  way  up  town  he  met  his  friend  Mr.  Yernon. 

"  Good  morning  Evart — going  to  my  house  ?" 

"  I  should  probably  have  called  there  before  I  returned, 
but  am  on  my  way  to  purchase  some  tickets  for  the  theatre 
this  evening." 

"  Feel  like  going — do  you  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  T  do  feel  much  inclined  ;  indeed,  I  would 
rather  not  go  if  I  could  well  avoid  it.  But  mamma  has  ex 
pressed  a  wish  to  hear  Cooper  this  evening,  and  of  course  I 
must  accompany  her." 

"  Of  course  !     All  right." 

"  But  do  you  think  it  all  right,  Mr.  Yernon  ?" 

"  Most  certainly !  for  I  understand  you  to  say  that  yoq 
are  going  at  the  request  of  your  mother — go,  by  all  means, 


AJXOTE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  249 

and  if  you  have  time  call  upon  me  to-morrow  evening,  and 
let  me  know  how  you  enjoyed  yourself." 

"  I  will,  sir." 

And  as  they  separated,  Evart  could  not  but  think  that  Mr. 
Vernon  was,  certainly,  a  very  singular  man,  for  he  remem 
bered  conversations  they  had  held  together  on  the  subject  of 
theatres,  and  that  gentleman  had,  in  plain  terms,  denounced 
them,  and  he  certainly  never  visited  them  himself;  perhaps 
he  would  explain  the  matter  on  the  morrow. 

According  to  his  promise,  Evart  called,  and  almost  the 
first  question  Mr.  Vernon  asked  was — 

"  Well,  Evart,  how  did  you  enjoy  yourself  last  even- 
ing?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  enjoyed  myself  at  all,  sir." 

«  What  was  the  difficulty  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  sir,  I  cannot  say  certainly  what  it  was  ;  but  it 
seemed  to  me  a  foolish  business  altogether.  At  times  there 
were  scenes  in  Cooper's  part,  that  would  absorb  my  interest ; 
but  there  was  so  much  in  the  whole  affair  that  seemed  to  me 
unnatural,  both  in  speaking  and  acting,  besides  some  things 
that  shocked  me.  Knowing  as  I  do,  the  character  of  the 
individuals,  to  hear  them  use  the  most  sacred  words  in  mock 
earnestness,  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  I  heartily  rejoiced 
to  hear  mamma  say  to  me  '  we  will  not  stay  to  hear  the 
farce,'  and  was  glad  when  we  got  away  from  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place." 

"  And  yet  you  have  been  rather  fond  of  going  there  !" 

'•  I  know  I  have,  but  wonder  now  how  I  could  ever  have 
been  pleased  with  the  silly  thing !" 

"  You  have  told  me,  Evart,  just  what  I  expected  to  hear, 
and  I  am  very  glad  that  thus  it  is ;  you  view  things  now 
through  a  very  different  medium  from  what  you  once  did, 
and  you  will  be  more  and  more  surprised,  as  you  find  not  only 
the  doings  of  men  presenting  a  new  aspect  to  you,  but  also 
the  works  of  God.  A  new  world  is  opening  to  you,  my  dear 
Evart ;  old  things  are  passing  away — a  brighter,  happier, 
purer  world!  Do  you  not  begin  yourself  to  think  so?" 

Evart  could  not  reply — he  had  begun  to  feel  the  influence 

of  a  new  life.     At  times,  bright  gleams  would  shoot  across 

his  mind  ;  light  streaks  from  an  unseen  world  would  irradiate 

some  part  of  his  horizon,  and   the   fountain  within  would  at 

11* 


250  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  \   OB, 

once  throw  up  joyous  sparkles,  and  the  tears  of  gladness  burst 
forth.  He  had  not  at  the  time,  thought  much  of  them,  nor 
searched  into  their  source ;  but  now,  as  Mr.  Vernon  spoke, 
they  all  came  to  his  remembrance,  and  his  heart  was  filled. 
He  knew  there  was  a  change,  and  that  he  was  happier  than 
he  had  ever  been  before,  but  as  he  tried  to  respond  to  his 
friend,  words  failed  him. 

Mr.  Vernon  understood  the  meaning  of  his  silence,  and  to 
relieve  him,  reverted  to  the  subject  of  theatrical  exhibitions. 

"  You,  no  doubt,  thought  somewhat  strange  of  my  reply  to 
you  yesterday,  when  you  asked  me  '  whether  I  thought  it  right 
for  you  to  go  ?'  and  I  will  now  explain  myself.  You  know 
my  opinion  about  such  matters,  as  you  and  I  have  been  over 
the  ground  before.  Theatres  do  exist,  and  probably  will,  until 
the  world  shall  be  in  a  very  different  state  from  what  it  now 
is.  They  are  the  most  attractive,  and,  under  certain  circum 
stances,  the  most  dangerous  places  that  a  young  man  can 
visit.  They  do  literally  lie  near  to  the  gates  of  death,  and  from 
them  the  path  leads  straight  to  hell !  And  you  well  know  to 
what  I  allude  when  I  speak  of  them  thus." 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  The  mere  representations  on  the  stage  may,  or  may  not, 
be  harmless.  To  me,  in  general,  they  are  very  insipid,  or  they 
were,  for  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  witnessed  them.  I 
know,  for  you  told  me  so,  that  you  were  to  accompany  your 
mother ;  you  could,  therefore,  be  utterly  removed  from  all 
those  attachments  extraneous  to  the  mere  play,  to  which  I 
have  just  alluded,  and  I  was  quite  willing,  under  such  circum 
stances,  to  have  you  look  at  what  you  once  admired  :  feeling 
quite  sure,  from  what  I  knew  of  you,  that  you  would  be 
affected  by  them  as  you  have.  Another  reason  was,  that  you 
were  obeying  a  request  of  your  mother." 

"  Yes,  sir ;  nothing  else  would  have  induced  me  to  go." 

"And  you  made  no  objections?" 

"  None  in  thejeast,  sir." 

"  That  was  right.  Obey  and  yield  promptly,  cheerfully,  at 
all  times.  That  is  a  positive  command  ;  and  when  we  ven 
ture  to  resist,  we  must  be  very  sure  that  our  reasons  for  doing 
so  are  as  clear  as  that  precept.  Your  mother  will  not,  doubt 
less,  wish  to  visit  such  scenes  often,  nor  do  I  think  she  would 
be  apt  to  command  you  to  do  anything  positively  wrong ;  al- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         251 

though  she  may  not  look  upon  many  things  as  dangerous  which 
you  know  to  be  such.  I  have  known  cases  where  children 
seemed  to  feel  that  the  new  relation  in  which  they  are  placed 
to  God  absolved  them  from  that  most  sacred  tie,  the  parental 
bond,  and  seemed  to  forget,  that  the  only  true  evidence  they 
could  have  that  any  good  change  had  passed  upon  them  at 
all,  was  a  more  perfect  desire  to  keep  all  the  commandments 
of  God.  One  idea  more,  my  dear  Evart,  and  I  have  done; 
but  I  fear  I  shall  weary  you  with  my  long  talk." 

"  You  need  not  fear  that,  Mr.  Vernon  ;  do  let  me  hear  it." 

"  Well,  it  is  this :  'A  Christian  is  a  light  shining  in  a  dark 
place?  You  can  think  of  that,  matter,  and  when  we  see 
one  another  again,  let  me  know  what  you  make  of  it  I  have 
a  special  motive  in  wishing  you  to  study  it ;  you  are  very 
peculiarly  situated,  and  will  need  well  digested  views  of  what 
is  to  be  expected  of  you,  and  of  what  may  be  right  for  you 
under  certain  circumstances ;  and  I  think  that  idea,  followed 
out  and  well  impressed  upon  the  mind  in  all  its  bearings,  will 
help  you  materially.  But  now  to  another  subject.  Have  you 
seen  your  friend  Thornton  yet?" 

" I  have  not;  I  called  there  after  I  had  seen  you  and  given 
you  the  information  I  had  received  concerning  him,  but  he 
was  not  in." 

"  I  called  there  too.  Blenham,  the  younger  brother,  is  an 
intimate  friend  of  mine,  and  from  what  you  have  told  me  of 
that  young  man,  I  was  very  anxious  to  see  him,  and  although 
I  told  you  to  invite  him  here,  I  thought  perhaps  a  personal 
invitation  from  me  might  be  more  sure  to  bring  him,  as  you 
say  he  is  very  diffident;  but  I  failed  in  seeing  him  likewise. 
I  left  my  card,  though,  and  Mr.  Blenham  desired  his  book 
keeper  to  say  to  Henry  that  he  might  call  upon  me  any  even 
ing  he  could  be  spared.  He  will,  no  doubt,  wonder  who  I 
am,  and  what  I  can  be  wanting  of  him." 

As  Mr.  Vernon  finished  this  sentence,  the  street-door  bell 
rang,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  servant  entered  and  handed 
Mr.  Vernon  a  card  ;  it  was  the  one  he  had  left  for  Henry. 

"  He  has  come,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  looking  at  Evart.  "Ask 
the  young  gentleman  in,  James." 

But  before  the  servant  had  time  to  deliver  the  message, 
Evart  was  in  the  hall,  and  literally  the  two  friends  ran  to  each 
other's  arms ;  they  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  but  there  was  no 


252  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

time  then,  nor  had  either  very  much  command  of  his  feelings. 
Under  the  circumstances,  words  were  not  the  vehicle  through 
which  feelings  could  be  conveyed.  At  length  Evart  exclaimed, 
with  much  emotion — 

"  Oh,  Henry,  how  I  have  wanted  to  see  you !" 

Henry  could  not  reply  ;  his  feelings  were  even  more  acute 
than  those  of  Evart,  so  he  suffered  his  friend  to  lead  him  in 
silence  through  the  hall  towards  the  library,  in  which  apart 
ment  Mr.  Vernon  and  Evart  had  been  sitting.  As  they 
passed  the  circular  stairway  in  the  centre  of  the  hall,  a  young 
lady  was  just  descending  its  last  step.  Evart  bowed  to  her, 
and  was  passing  along,  thinking  a  better  opportunity  would 
be  afforded  for  introducing  his  friend  in  the  family  circle  of 
the  parlor.  Henry,  however,  paused  and  looked  intently  at 
her,  and  the  lady,  under  a  like  impulse,  turned  and  fixed  her 
eye  upon  him.  She  must  have  been  a  little  in  doubt  as  to 
the  propriety  of  the  act,  or  whether  she  had  not  mistaken 
the  features ;  for  the  color  mantled  her  cheeks,  and  there  was 
evident  confusion  in  her  manner.  Evart  was  surprised  at-  this 
movement  on  the  part  of  each,  and  was  about  to  make  a  for 
mal  introduction  of  the  parties,  when  the  lady  spoke. 

"  Can  I  be  mistaken  ?     Is  not  this  Henry  Thornton  ?" 

Henry  advanced,  and  their  hands  were  clasped  in  a  warm 
embrace.  He  spoke  her  name  at  the  same  time,  but  in 
scarcely  an  audible  voice. 

"  I  thought  I  could  not  be  mistaken,  and  yet  you  have 
altered  so,  that  my  heart  misgave  me  for  a  moment." 

"  And  you  have  changed  too,  Miss  Louise  ;  we  have  both 
grown  more  than  we  are  ourselves  conscious  of;  but  your 
countenance  is  the  same,  or  at  least  I  think  so." 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  Henry  that  struck 
a  chill  to  the  heart  of  Louise.  She  had  met  him  with  much 
warmth  ;  she  had  not  even  waited  for  any  advancement  on 
his  part.  She  was  still  Louise ;  above  all  disguise,  and  unused 
to  control  her  feelings  where  she  did  not  think  there  was  an 
imperious  call  for  so  doing.  He  had  indeed  grasped  her 
hand  cordially — perhaps  too  much  so,  as  an  act  of  politeness; 
but  his  words  seemed  cold,  and  came  forth,  she  thought,  in 
too  measured  a  manner  ;  and  then,  "  Miss  Louise  ;"  when 
they  parted,  a  very  different  attachment  was  added  to  her 
name.  All  this  rushed  through  her  mind  in  an  instant. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         253 

Perhaps  she  felt  a  little  mortified,  too,  that  one  should  have 
been  present  and  witnessed  her  ardor,  whom  she  knew  was 
well  versed  in  all  that  etiquette  of  city  life  to  which  she  had 
not  been  educated,  or  rather  which  she  had  not  seen  fit  to 
cultivate.  But  she  must  say  something  in  reply  to  Henry's 
remark. 

"  I  expect  I  have  grown  some,  but  I  am  not  apt  to  think 
of  that,  perhaps  not  enough.  Shall  we  see  you  in  the  par 
lor  ?"  and  she  courtesied  to  him  in  quite  a  formal  manner, 
as  she  turned  to  go.  Henry  looked  at  Evart  for  a  reply. 

"  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,  Miss  Lovelace." 

Evart  had  been  too  confounded  by  the  sudden  and  unex 
pected  scene  to  do  aught  but  look  on.  The  whole  thing, 
however,  occupied  but  a  few  moments,  and  no  opportunity 
was  afforded  him  to  speak,  if  there  had  been  any  occasion 
for  it.  Nothing  was  said  but  what  has  been  recorded,  yet 
feelings  were  set  to  work  in  the  breasts  of  each  party  that 
were,  upon  the  whole,  not  very  agreeable. 

"  And  this  is  Henry  Thornton  !"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  as  he  rose 
to  meet  the  young  man. 

"  And  my  friend,  Mr.  Vernon,"  said  Evart. 

''  That  is  a  word  which  comprehends  a  great  deal,  I  can 
tell  you,  young  gentlemen — a  sacred  word ;  but  often  sadly 
abused.  But  do  not  be  alarmed,  either  of  you.  I  am  not 
going  to  deliver  a  homily  on  friendship.  I  am  very  happy 
to  see  you,  Mr.  Thornton." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  call  him  Henry.  You  call  me  Evart, 
you  know." 

"  Shall  I  ?  But  he  is  taller  than  you,  Evart,  and  I  know 
not  but  he  is  older.  It  would  not  indeed  be  very  difficult  for 
me,  if  pleasing  to  him."  And  turning  to  Henry — "  Your 
friend  here  has  had  your  name  over  so  often,  that  it  has  be 
come  quite  a  household  word  between  him  and  myself." 

"  I  should  feel  it  quite  a  privilege,  sir,  to  be  thus  familiarly 
addressed." 

"  Then  Henry  it  shall  be.  Come,  take  a  seat,  and  after 
we  have  chatted  a  while,  and  become  a  little  acquainted  with 
each  other,  we  will  adjourn  to  the  parlor." 

But  this  event  did  not  take  place  for  some  time.  There 
were  many  things  to  be  revealed  to  each  which  the  other 
wished  to  know.  Henry  had  to  go  over  with  his  experience 


254  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

since  he  had  last  seen  Evart,  and  to  give  (with  some  omis 
sions)  the  particulars  in  relation  to  his  procuring  his  present 
place ;  all  which  was  drawn  forth  from  him  evidently  with 
reluctance,  but  both  Evart  and  Mr.  Vernon  were  so  anxious 
to  know  all  the  little  items  from  his  own  lips,  that  there  was 
not  much  of  consequence  that  he  could  keep  back.  And  he 
in  turn  then  had  to  be  made  acquainted  with  some  things  in 
Evart's  experience,  the  particulars  of  which  he  had  not  known 
anything  of  before ;  into  all  which  Mr.  Vernon  entered  hear 
tily — so  much  so,  that  Henry  soon  felt  quite  at  home  in  his 
presence,  and  it  was  to  him  a  cause  of  great  joy,  that  he  had 
met  with  one  so  far  above  himself  in  knowledge  and  station 
in  life,  and  yet  so  interested  as  a  friend  that  he  could  feel  free 
before  him. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  "  that  you  must  have  seen  me 
at  Stratton  ;  have  you  no  remembrance  of  that  sort  ?" 

"Since  I  received  your  card,  sir,  I  called  to  mind  the  name, 
I  had  heard  the  name,  it  seemed  familiar,  and  then  I  remem 
bered  that  such  a  gentleman  had  been  occasionally  at  Strat 
ton  ;  and  now  I  remember  perfectly  your  countenance, 
although  I  believe  I  have  never  seen  you  but  twice  before — 
once  near  the  cabin  of  Caroline  Jeralman,  and  again,  I  think, 
for  a  few  moments  one  evening,  at  Esquire  Thompson's." 

"  Did  you  know  Caroline  ?" 

"  Not  particularly,  sir ;  I  have  seen  her  at  times — she  took 
in  sewing,  and  as  my  mother  was  feeble,  and  needed  assist 
ance  in  that  way,  she  used  to  give  Caroline  small  jobs  to  do. 
I  never  was  in  her  house,  but  I  have  seen  her,  and  she  has 
seen  me,  and  seems  to  know  me." 

Mr.  Vernon  fairly  started,  but  immediately  made  some 
movement  to  divert  attention,  and  with  rather  a  careless  man 
ner  asked — 

"  Does  she  live  there  still  ?  have  you  seen  her  lately  ?" 

"  I  think  she  is  in  the  city,  sir,  though  I  have  not  seen 
her." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

And  Henry  repeated  what  he  had  heard  at  the  Bartons'  re 
specting  the  inquiries  Caroline  made  after  himself,  and  where 
he  was  to  be  found,  etc.  Mr.  Vernon  noted  down  the  street, 
and  as  near  as  he  could,  the  number  where  she  could  proba- 
blv  be  found. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        255 

"  You  say  she  expressed  a  wish  to  see  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  understand  that  her  reason  for  wishing  to 
see  me  was,  that  she  thought  I  might  be  able  to  inform  her 
where  some  person  lived  whom  she  wanted  to  see  very  much 
— I  have  no  idea  who  it  can  be." 

"  If  she  should  call  upon  you — but  no  matter,  I  will  see  her. 
Perhaps,  however,  if  she  should  call  upon  you,  you  had  bet 
ter  say  nothing  of  my  having  made  inquiries  about  her,  or  that 
you  know  anything  concerning  me,  unless  she  should  ask  you, 
and  then  you  can  give  any  information  it  may  be  in  your 
power  to  give." 

The  time  seemed  very  long  to  Louise,  that  the  gentlemen 
remained  in  the  library,  and  yet  she  tried  to  make  herself  be 
lieve,  she  was  not  by  any  means  anxious  for  their  company. 
She  had  allowed  her  thoughts  to  be  very  busy  since  her  en 
counter  with  Henry  Thornton.  He  had  altered  indeed,  but 
very  much  for  the  better,  as  to  his  personal  appearance.  Nine 
months  had  advanced  him  much  nearer  towards  manhood 
than  she  could  have  imagined.  His  bright,  soft  eye  seemed 
to  her  more  beautiful  than  ever,  bis  form  erect,  and  well  pro 
portioned,  gave  promise  of  a  fine  stature  when  matured  ;  and 
his  manners,  so  graceful  and  easy,  told  plainly  that  he  had 
not  been  unmindful  to  cultivate  those  graces  which  are  so 
apt  to  charm.  He  was  the  Henry  she  had  parted  from 
with  so  much  regret,  only  vastly  improved.  He  was  also 
now  in  a  fair  way  to  future  prosperity.  She  bad  heard  of 
this,  and  she  doubted  not  he  felt  himself  higher  in  the  scale 
of  being  than  when  he  was  the  poor  boy,  starting  on  his  lone 
way  to  seek  a  livelihood.  Under  different  circumstances  all 
this  would  have  been  very  gratifying  to  Louise.  But  "  would 
he  now  be  willing  to  compromise  his  happiness  by  a  connec 
tion  with  her?  Was  not  his  formal  behavior  at  this  their 
first  meeting,  a  token  that  he  wished  the  past  to  be  forgotten  ?" 
'•  But  why  should  she  regard  this  ?  What  could  he  be  to 
her,  under  any  circumstances!  Had  she  not  positively  for 
bidden  him  to  indulge  the  idea  that  he  could  ever  sustain  any 
relation  to  her  but  that  of  a  friend  or  brother !"  And  poor 
Louise  felt,  as  she  had  never  before,  the  sad  fate  to  which 
she  .was  doomed  ;  and  she  now  knew  as  she  had  not  before, 
that  every  year  added  to  her  life  would  add  to  the  trial  which 
which  was  pressing  upon  her.  Her  pride  might  enable  her 


256  TKTTE   TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

to  bear  up  under  it,  but  it  would  be  by  the  sacrifice  of  all  the 
warm  feelings  of  her  heart ;  but  she  resolved  it  should  sustain 
her.  No  one  should  know  that  her  affections  could  be  won,  or 
that  the  wall  she  would  build  up  about  herself  was  not  erect 
ed  from  choice.  She  had  indeed,  without  reflection,  met 
Henry  with  some  warmth  of  manner;  hereafter  she  would 
treat  him  kindly,  but  in  a  way  he  would  not  be  able  to  misin 
terpret." 

That  Henry  felt  somewhat  backward  to  manifest  any  un 
usual  interest  on  the  moment  of  meeting  Louise,  it  must  be 
acknowledged.  His  interest  for  her  had  lost  none  of  its 
power  over  him  ;  but  he  did  not  wish  that  anything  which 
had  passed  between  them  heretofore  should  be  the  basis  for 
his  conduct  towards  her  now,  or  be  in  any  way  alluded  to  by 
him,  so  as  to  compel  Louise  to  feel  that  he  had  any  peculiar 
claim  upon  her.  "  She  was  now  older ;  she  might  wish  the 
past  forgotten  ;  she  might  have  discovered  the  secret  of  her 
birth,  and  therefore  feel  that  a  much  higher  station  than  any 
he  could  hope  to  place  her  in,  she'  might  aspire  to." 

He  had  seen  her,  too,  in  company  with  Evart ;  and,  as 
Henry  thought,  quite  ready  to  receive  his  attentions  ;  and 
from  Evart's  manner  at  the  time,  he  judged  that  Louise  was 
an  object  of  interest  to  him.  "  He,  Henry,  could  never  as 
pire  to  be  a  rival  of  his  friend ;  for  him  he  would  rather 
make  any  sacrifice." 

These  thoughts  had  their  effect ;  they  operated  at  the  time 
of  meeting  Louise,  although  taken  by  surprise,  and  they  will 
doubtless  not  lose  their  power  in  future. 

Her  name  had  not  been  mentioned  by  any  of  the  gentle 
men  while  seated  together  :  the  subjects  of  conversation  were 
so  exciting,  and  led  to  such  constant  explanations  on  other 
matters,  as  to  give  no  room  for  a  new  topic  to  be  intro 
duced. 

Mr.  Vernon,  however,  did  not  forget  the  main  object  he 
had  in  view  by  his  invitation  to  Henry.  He  intended  to  sur 
prise  them  both ;  he  wished  to  notice  the  effect  of  their  first 
interview  under  present  circumstances.  He  had  not  told 
Louise  that  he  expected  Henry,  and  he  knew  of  course  that 
the  latter  was  unacquainted  with  the  fact  that  she  was  a 
member  of  his  family. 

u  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  during  a  pause  in  the  con- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         257 

versation,  "  we  must  wait  upon  the  ladies ;  they  will  wonder 
what  detains  us." 

And  the  young  gentlemen  immediately  arose  and  followed 
Mr.  Vernon  into  the  parlor.  The  latter,  taking  Henry  by 
the  arm,  in  his  pleasant  way,  introduced  him  to  his  sisters, 
who  received  him  with  much  cordiality.  He  then  led  him 
to  Louise.  Both  the  young  persons  smiled,  as  the  formality 
of  presentation  was  gone  through  with  ;  Henry  remarking — 

"  I  have  already  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Lovelace 
this  evening." 

"Indeed  !"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  with  a  slight  look  of  surprise, 
but  he  made  no  further  remark,  and  very  soon  all  were  busily 
engaged  in  conversation, 

Henry,  either  by  accident  or  design,  took  a  seat  near  the 
sisters  of  Mr.  Vernon,  who  kept  him  very  busy  in  answering 
questions  ;  while  Evart  and  Mr.  Vernon  sat  one  on  each  side 
of  Louise. 

No  one  could  have  judged  from  appearances  that  the  ar 
rangement  was  not  quite  satisfactory  to  all  parties,  and  yet  two 
of  them  at  least  were  by  no  means  happy,  and  were  heartily 
glad  when  their  forced  smiles,  and  equally  forced  liveliness  of 
conversation,  came  to  a  close.  Henry  had  stayed  as  long  as 
he  felt  propriety  demanded,  and  much  longer  than  his  feel 
ings  prompted.  He  arose,  and  with  a  gentle  bow  to  the 
ladies  requested  to  be  excused,  "  as  lie  must  be  home  in  good 
season." 

"  You  are  not  going  ?"  said  Mr.  Vernon  as  he  took  Henry's 
hand. 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  I  have  some  distance  to  walk,  and  my 
furlough  for  an  evening  does  not  extend  beyond  nine  o'clock." 

"You  are  perfectly  right  then.  Obedience  to  proper  rules 
is  highly  commendable,  especially  in  the  young.  And  now, 
Master  Henry,  you  have  found  the  way  here,  consider  your 
self  invited  whenever  you  have  a  leisure  evening  and  feel 
disposed  to  visit  us." 

Henry  did  not  reply,  for  he  was  just  then  about  to  take 
his  leave  of  Louise.  His  first  thought  was  to  part  from  her 
with  a  slight  obeisance,  but  he  saw  that  for  some  cause  she 
was  deeply  affected.  Her  eye  was  fixed  upon  him — not  in 
anger,  nor  with  that  playful  look  which  she  could  sometimes 
assume  ;  it  was  the  same  expression  that  had  beamed  upon 


258  TETJE   TO   THE   LAST. 

him  in  days  past.  His  heart  smote  him ;  his  own  face  changed 
its  expression ;  he  put  forth  his  hand,  and  without  either 
speaking,  they  parted  with  that  silent  embrace.  What  feel 
ings  were  at  work  in  each  heart  neither  knew.  It  might 
have  been  that  of  intense  love,  or  only  a  momentary  pang  of 
sorrow  as  the  past  was  recalled. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WE  have  introduced  the  Messrs.  Blenham  to  the  reader, 
without,  perhaps,  being  as  particular  as  was  satisfactory.  The 
elder  brother,  Mr.  Horatio  Blenhara,  had  been  married,  but 
was  now  a  widower,  and,  as  we  have  already  said,  was  living 
with  his  younger  brother,  and  keeping  house,  after  bachelor 
fashion.  He  was  a  man  of  retiring  habits,  and  spent  much  of 
his  time,  when  not  unnecessarily  employed  with  his  business, 
in  his  library,  having  a  great  fondness  for  books,  and  appa 
rently  preferring  their  company  to  any  other.  He  was  not 
eager  to  make  money,  but  had  a  clear  head  about  all  business 
matters,  and  had  been  quite  fortunate  in  his  calculations  of 
trade,  and  was  noted  for  his  prudence  as  well  as  foresight.  The 
more  active  share  in  the  concern  was  taken  by  the  younger  bro 
ther,  Mr.  Henry  Blenham,  to  whom  all  its  management  was 
entirely  committed.  They  had  been  largely  engaged  in  the 
shipping  business,  but  at  the  period  when  introduced  in  this 
narrative,  were  merely  attending  to  their  foreign  correspond- 
dence,  and  making  preparations  for  active  operations.  The 
war  of  1812  was  just  drawing  to  a  close.  Offers  of  mediation 
had  been  made  and  accepted,  and  the  heart  of  the  whole  nation 
was  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  returning  peace.  Mr.  Henry 
Bienham  was  much  younger  than  his  brother,  and  the  pros 
pect  of  a  renewal  of  our  commerce  with  foreign  nations, 
which  had  been  entirely  suspended,  or  very  nearly  so,  was  to 
him  a  cause  of  great  joy.  A  large  field  would  be  open  to 
enterprise,  and  he  was  anxious  to  embrace  it.  On  every  side  - 
he  was  looking  for  the  most  advantageous  opening.  With 
every  facility  that  capital  could  command,  he  was  preparing 
to  mingle  in  the  exciting  race  for  superiority  which  our  mer 
chants  would  start  upon,  the  moment  the  incubus  of  war  was 
removed.  He  was,  emphatically,  a  man  of  the  world  :  cor 
rect  and  honorable  in  all  his  dealings,  liberal  to  those  who 
labored  for  him,  of  a  ffenerous  disposition  and  ready  to  give 

269 


260  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OB, 

a  helping  hand  to  those  whom  he  saw  were  enterprising  and 
industrious,  and  needed  assistance.     He  was  not  ambitious  of 
display,  either  in  his  style  of  living  or  doing  business,  and 
none  but  those  most  intimate  with  the  affairs  of  the  firm  had 
any  idea  of  the  magnitude  of  their  transactions.     But  he  had 
always  looked  upon  business  as  having  claims  paramount  to 
all  others.     He  would  have  spurned  the  thought  of  meanness 
or  prevarication  in  any  of  his  bargains.     He  was  above  the 
littleness  of  taking  undue  advantage  of  his  fellow-men,  and 
his  word  could  be  confided  in  to  the  very  letter.       But  he 
thought  not  of  any  higher  obligations.     He  indeed  attended 
public  worship  occasionally  ;  but  if  his  inclination  led  him  to 
spend  his  Sabbath  in  his  library  with  some  congenial  book, 
of  either  a  fascinating  or  intellectual  character,  he  felt  under 
no  obligation  to  deny  his  pleasure.     He  did  not,  in  general, 
attend  to  his  business  affairs  on  that  day,  but  if  he  felt  that 
his  interest  might  be  advanced  by  writing  letters,  or  even 
examining  or  making  out  accounts,  he  had  no  hesitation  to 
use  the  Sabbath  for  that  purpose ;  and  his  office  being  in  the 
same  building  in  which  he  lived,  and  in  the  rear  part,  all  this 
could  be  done  in  a  quiet,  unnoticed  way.     "No  one  was  in 
jured  by  it,  no  outward  disregard  was  paid  to  the  holy  day, 
and  of  course  no  one  had  a  right  to  abridge  him  of  his  liberty 
of  doing  as  he  pleased."     The  elder  brother  was  somewhat 
more  strict  in  attendance  at  the  house  of  worship,  and  never 
troubled  himself  particularly  about  business  affairs  on  that 
day,  further  than  making  inquiries  as  to  arrivals  and  reading 
letters  occasionally  which  his  brother  had  brought  from  the 
office.     But  he  probably  paid  less  attention  to  such  matters, 
rather  from  the  fact  that  he  felt  less  inclined  than  formerly 
to  the  labor  of  business,  than  because  he  had  any  conscien 
tious  scruples  in  regard  to  keeping  or  profaning  the  Sabbath. 
Although  Henry  had  now  been  some  months  in  the  concern, 
he  had  never  been  called  upon  to  do  anything  that  had  neces 
sarily  a  connection  with  business  on  the  Sabbath;  nor  was  he, 
probably,  aware  how  his  employers  regarded  that  day.     He 
was  either  in  his  own  room  or  in  attendance  at  the  house  of 
God.     It  was  not  his  business  to  pry  into  their  peculiar  habits ; 
and  so  long  as  he  had  perfect  liberty  to  spend  the  day  as  he 
thought  best,  it  was  enough  for  him  "  to  see  to  his  own  heart, 
and  kept  that  diligently."     He  found  work  enough  to  do  there 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         261 

to  meet  what  he  thought  was  required,  in  order  to  keep  the 
commandment  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

Peace  had  finally  been  declared,  and  there  were  stirring 
times  in  the  office  of  the  Messrs.  Blenham.  Through  the  day, 
and  late  in  the  evening,  Mr.  Belden  and  Henry  were  in  requi 
sition,  and  both  seemed  animated  with  new  life,  and  never 
wearied  with  their  prolonged  labors.  More  especially  were 
they  now  much  occupied,  for  the  reason  that  the  junior  part 
ner  was  about  proceeding  to  China,  for  the  purpose  of  making 
arrangements  for  future  trade. 

Henry  and  Mr.  Belden  had  been  in  the  office  until  quite 
late  on  Saturday,  and  separated  in  excellent  spirits,  with  an 
understanding  that  Henry  was  to  call  on  Mr.  Belden  the  next 
day  and  accompany  him  to  church — the  latter  gentleman,  we 
are  sorry  to  say,  not  being  in  the  habit  of  making  such  excur 
sions  ;  he  had,  however,  consented,  if  Henry  would  call  for 
him,  to  go  for  once,  at  any  rate,  and  see  how  he  liked  it. 
"  Didn't  believe  he  would,  though." 

The  Sabbath  morning  opened  in  great  beauty,  and  Henry 
was  as  gladsome  as  the  birds  seemed  to  be,  that  were  filling 
the  still  air  with  their  melody.  On  other  mornings  their 
little  songs  were  lost  amid  the  babel  sounds  that  filled  the 
business  part  of  the  city. 

Henry  had  labored  diligently  the  past  week  ;  and  those  only 
can  enjoy  the  day  of  rest  fully  who  have  thus  spent  the  inter 
vening  time.  He  was  also  anticipating  the  pleasure  he  would 
have  in  taking  Mr.  Belden  with  him  to  the  house  of  God ;  he 
felt  so  sure,  that  if  once  he  could  be  brought  to  listen  to  the 
rich  instruction  which  he,  Henry,  enjoyed,  he  would  never 
again  willingly  be  absent.  And  Henry  had  arrayed  himself 
for  the  day,  and  was  on  the  point  of  departure,  when  the  ser 
vant  knocked  at  his  door. 

"  Mr.  Henry  Blenham  would  like  to  see  you  in  the  office." 

"  Certainly,"  and  Henry,  with  all  speed,  hastened  down 
from  his  room.  Mr.  Blenham  was  seated  at  his  desk,  busily 
employed ;  papers  and  letters  were  lying  about  him ;  he 
turned  towards  Henry  and  asked,  in  his  usual  pleasant  man 
ner — 

u  You  know,  I  believe,  where  Mr.  Belden  boards." 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do." 

"  Will  you  please  go  to  his  boarding-house,  and  if  he  is  in, 


262  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  J   OE, 

tell  him  he  will  confer  a  favor  upon  me  if  be  will  come  to  the 
office ;  I  wish  to  see  him." 

"  I  will,  sir ;"  and  as  Henry  was  hastening  from  the  room, 
Mr.  Blenham  again  spoke — 

"And  as  soon  as  you  return,  Henry,  come  in  here,  if  you 
please ;  I  want  you  further." 

"  I  will,  sir,"  and  Henry  went  on  his  way.  He  was,  indeed, 
somewhat  disappointed. 

Not  so,  however,  Mr.  Belden.  He  liked  his  quiet  on  the 
Sabbath.  It  was  an  effort  which  he  made,  merely  for  the 
sake  of  gratifying  Henry,  to  get  ready  for  church ;  and  the 
first  words  he  uttered,  as  Henry  entered  his  room,  were — 

"Are  you  in  earnest  now !  Feel  queer ;  ain't  been  so 
long — must  go,  eh  ?"  And  he  began  to  bustle  round  the 
room. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Belden,  but  Mr.  Blenham  wants  to  see 
you  at  the  office.  He  says  it  will  be  quite  a  favor  to  him." 

"  Wants  me  !  Something  extra,  eh  ?  Well,  I  am  the 
man — always  ready — I'm  oft*  like  a  shot !" 

As  Mr.  Belden  was  a  man  of  few  words,  and  Henry  not 
just  then  *in  as  good  spirits  as  he  had  been  that  morning, 
scarcely  a  word  passed  between  them  on  their  way  to  the 
office. 

Mr.  Blenham  was  there  when  they  entered,  and  still  very 
busy.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Mr.  Belden  he  apologized  for  break 
ing  in  upon  his  holiday.  •  "  But  there  were  some  accounts  he 
wished  made  out,  and  he  had  therefore  taken  the  liberty  of 
sending  for  him." 

"  No  liberty  at  all,  sir — glad  to  do  anything,"  and  Mr. 
Belden  mounted  his  seat  at  the  desk,  and  was  soon  at  work. 

Mr.  Blenham  then  turned  to  Henry,  and  calling  him  to  the 
desk,  placed  some  letters  before  him  to  be  copied,  saying  as 
he  did  so — 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  you  too,  but  business,  you  know, 
must  be  attended  to  at  such  a  time  as  this." 

No  doubt  Mr.  Blenham  said  this  from  seeing  that  Henry's 
countenance  did  not  wear  its  usually  bright  and  pleasant 
aspect.  Henry  simply  replied — 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  But  before  you  begin  writing,  please  step  to  the  post- 
office  and  get  our  mail." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         263 

"  Yes,  sir,"  and  leaving  the  desk,  Henry  passed  through  the 
door  into  the  adjoining  room  on  his  way  out.  It  was  not  long 
before  he  returned.  Mr.  Blenham  and  Mr.  Belden  both 
turned  towards  him  a  look  of  surprise,  as  if  they  thought  it 
hardly  possible  he  could  have  accomplished  the  errand. 

Henry  spoke  in  rather  a  trembling  tone — 

"  Mr.  Blenham,  may  I  see  you  a  moment  ?" 

The  gentleman  immediately  arose,  and  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  he  and  Henry  were  alone  together." 

"  What  is  it,  Henry  ?"  ' 

"  I  wish  to  ask  you,  sir,  if  I  may  be  excused  from  going  to 
the  Post-office  this  morning  ?  and  whether,  if  I  sit  up  to-night 
and  accomplish  the  writing  you  have  for  me  to  do,  it  will  not 
answer  ?" 

"  Are  you  not  well  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  quite  well.  But,  sir,  I  feel  so  unhappy  at  the 
thought  of  doing  work  on  this  day — it  seems  to  me  I  should 
be  doing  wrong.  I  dare  not  do  it,  sir !" 

Mr.  Blenham  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  for  a  moment 
he  did  not  reply. 

"  Otherwise,  to  put  your  reply  into  plain  language,  Henry, 
you  refuse  to  obey  my  request.  I  am  right — am  I  not?" 

"  I  dare  not,  Mr.  Blenham,  violate  a  plain,  command  of 
God.  I  will  sit  up  all  night,  sir,  willingly,  gladly,  and  do  the 
writing  you  wish.  It  shall  be  done,  I  promise  you,  by  morn 
ing." 

"  I  will  hardly  trouble  you  to  do  that ;  and  as  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  having  those  under  me  refuse  to  obey  my  re 
quests,  you  may  feel  yourself  excused  from  further  service 
here.  To-morrow  morning,  come  to  the  office  and  your  ar 
rears  shall  be  paid." 

As  Mr.  Blenham  reentered  the  office,  Mr.  Belden  noticed 
that  he  seemed  much  excited  ;  and  perhaps  the  surprise  evi 
dent  in  the  looks  of  the  latter  caused  his  employer  to  make 
an  explanation. 

"  Your  young  friend,  Mr.  Belden,  seems  to  pay  little  regard 
to  his  own  interest." 

"  Nothing  happened,  sir  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  much  consequence.  He  has  only  thrown 
himself  out  of  his  place,  that's  all !" 

"  Put  off  !  quit !  cleared  out !     Can't  be !  some  mistake, 


264:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

sir  !  He  must  be  light-headed,  sir — a  little  out !  Shall  I  go 
after  him,  sir  ?  He  must  be  out !" 

And  Mr.  Belden  threw  down  his  pen  and  caught  up  his  hat, 
and  was  ready  to  go  somewhere. 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  trouble  yourself,  Mr.  Belden.  It  will 
be  of  no  use,  sir.  He  is  not  out  of  his  mind,  as  you  suppose. 
I  expect  though,  he  has  a  stubborn  will." 

"  Saucy,  sir  ?     Spoke  wrong  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  I  cannot  say  that.  But  you  heard  me  give  him 
some  directions  a  few  moments  since.  He  refuses  to  do  my 
bidding ;  or,  aHeast,  says  he  dare  not  do  it,  which  amounts 
to  the  same  thing." 

'  Sorry,  sir,  very  ;  expect  he  can't  help  it !" 

'  Why  not,  sir  ?" 

'  I  expect  he  was  born  so,  sir  !" 

'  What !  with  a  stubborn  disposition  ?" 

'  Oh,  no,  sir ;  wasn't  meaning  that ;  never  see  it  in  him. 
But  some  folks,  they  say,  are  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  their 
mouth  ;  always  make  money ;  can't  help  it :  I  wasn't,  I  know. 
But  I  guess  Henry  was  born  with  the  Ten  Commandments  in 
his  mouth  ;  must  keep  'em  ;  can't  help  it !" 

"  What  makes  you  think  so,  Mr.  Belden  ?" 

"  Sticks  to  them  so,  sir — like  a  dog  to  his  bone.  And  be 
sides,  see  here,  sir !" 

And  Mr.  Belden  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  taking  out  a 
small  parcel  neatly  folded  up,  opened  it,  and  placed  it  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Blenham. 

"  This  thing,  sir,  he  keeps  about  him  as  choice  as  gold 
dust.  I  got  it,  you  see,  sir,  from  a  young  chap,  who  some 
how  or  other  got  it  from  Henry.  It's  plain-spoken,  clear  as 
a  balanced  account.  I  guess  he  goes  by  it." 

Mr.  Blenham  took  the  paper ;  appeared  to  glance  his  eye 
over  it,  and  as  Mr.  Belden  resumed  hts  labors  at  the  desk, 
threw  it  carelessly  down  among  his  own  papers,  and  com 
menced  writing,  or,  at  least,  made  preparations  for  so  doing ; 
arranged  his  paper  before  him,  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink, 
rested  his  hand  over  the  blank  sheet,  and  fixed  his  eye  on  the 
little  leaf  that  belonged  to  Henry — and  read  !  and  looked 
away,  and  read  again  !  And  still  his  hand  rested  on  the 
blank  page,  until  the  ink  dried  in  his^pen. 

Mr.  Belden  wondered  at  the  strange  silence,  and  would 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         265 

have  been  glad  to  know  what  was  going  on ;  but  his  back 
was  towards  his  employer,  and  he  had  no  excuse  for  turning 
round  to  ask  a  question. 

And  Mr.  Belden  kept  on  at  bis  work,  but  the  click  of  his 
own  pen  was  the  only  noise  in  that  silent  room.  At  length 
Mr.  Blenham  arose  and  left  the  office,  and  his  footsteps  were 
heard  traversing  to  and  fro  the  outer  room.  Something  was 
wrong !  Some  new  thought  had  made  a  lodgment  within 
the  citadel  of  the  strong  and  self-reliant  man  !  Perhaps  it 
has  for  the  time  shaken  his  confidence  in  himself;  or  is  stir 
ring  up  his  sensitive  spirit — for  he  had  keen  sensibilities — 
and  waking  up  within  unhallowed  passions,  and  arousing 
them  to  a  deadly  strife  against  all  that  has  the  form  of  good 
ness.  Time  will  unfold  the  mystery. 

After  leaving  Mr.  Blenhara,  Henry  returned  to  his  room, 
that  he  might  collect  his  thoughts,  and  decide  what  course  he 
should  pursue. 

As  he  closed  the  door  his  heart  sank  within  him,  and  he 
sat  down  and  gave  way  to  his  feelings.  At  length  he  roused 
himself  to  thought  and  action.  Again,  and  again,  he  went 
over  the  whole  scene ;  he  recalled  every  word  he  had  said, 
he  could  perceive  in  them  nothing  disrespectful ;  he  had  en 
deavored  to  do  what  he  thought  was  right ;  he  loved  Mr. 
Blenham — he  would  go  to  the  very  extent  of  his  ability  to 
serve  him.  Henry  felt  that  in  Mr.  Blenham,  he  had  met 
with  one  who  had  treated  him  with  unexpected  kindness,  and 
his  obligations  to  him  he  felt  to  be  very  great.  "  But  how 
could  he  go  against  a  direct  command  of  God !  Had  he  not 
most  solemnly  pledged  his  whole  being  and  service  to  his 
Father  in  heaven  !  Could  he  go  back  ?  What  would  life  be 
to  him  if  the  way  should  be  closed  between  that  great  and 
good  Being  and  his  own  heart !" 

But  what  course  should  he  now  take  in  this  dilemma.  To 
stay  for  a  day,  even,  where  he  then  was,  appeared  too  much 
like  beggary.  Mr.  Blenham  had  told  him  to  call  at  the  of 
fice  on  the  morrow,  and  he  would  pay  him  what  was  due. 
"  That  he  did  not  want — he  never  would  ask  for — he  had 
already  been  sufficiently  compensated.  No !  He  would  de 
part  at  once — he  would  try  to  divert  his  mind  from  all 
worldly  and  unpleasan^houghts  for  the  day,  and  on  the  mor 
row,  look  again  forth  upon  the  busy  world,  to  see  in  what 

12 


266  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

way  he  was  now  to  procure  a  livelihood.  He  would  go.  to  the 
house  of  God,  and  from  thence  to  his  old  lodging-place  at  the 
Bartons' ;  perhaps  they  might  keep  him  for  a  few  days." 

This  simple  plan  arranged,  he  placed  all  his  little  articles 
in  his  small  trunk,  locked  it,  looked  round  the  room  where 
he  had  enjoyed  so  much,  and  where  he  had  hoped  long  to  be 
a  tenant,  and  then  closed  the  door,  and  with  as  little'  noise  as 
possible,  descended  the  stairs,  and  left  the  house. 

His  feelings  were  indeed  sad — a  heavy  weight  lay  upon  his 
heart;  he  dared  not  turn  his  eye  even  toward  the  dwelling. 
It  was  not  that  he  had  lost  his  place — a  deeper  cause  of  sor 
row  affected  him.  He  felt  that  he  had  lost  a  kind  friend. 
He  had  been  misunderstood !  But  no  room  had  been  left  for 
explanation.  With  a  full  and  aching  heart  he  went  on  his 
way. 

That  evening  found  him  seated  with  the  Bartons.  They 
had  received  him  cordially.  He  had  told  them  that  he  had 
left  his  situation,  but  did  not  state  the  cause ;  they  knew 
enough  of  the  ways  of  the  city  to  know,  that  possibly  he 
might  have  been  to  blame,  but  not  necessarily  so,  and  out  of 
delicacy  to  his  feelings  they  asked  no  questions.  His  little 
attic  room  was  still  open  to  him,  and  being  wearied  by  the 
excitement  of  the  day,  he  retired  early  to  seek  rest. 

Once  again  alone,  his  thoughts  began  to  gather  strength, 
and  bring  before  him  dark  visions. 

"  Again  he  had  been  cast  adrift,  and  was  alone  upon  a  wide, 
wide  sea ;  and  to  what  point  should  he  shape  his  course  ?" 
Never  before  was  he  in  such  doubt.  He  feared  most  truly 
that  he  had  mistaken  his  ability  to  succeed  in  the  city.  His 
experience  hitherto  was  certainly  much  against  any  future 
effort.  He  could  never  expect  to  procure  a  situation  more 
eligible  than  the  one  he  had  just  lost.  "  And  was  it  so,  that 
trade  could  not  be  successfully  pursued  without  a  violation  of 
justice,  honor,  and  conscience !"  He  could  not  tell.  "  He 
could  not  believe  but  there  were  many  who  regulated  their 
business  as  well  as  their  lives  by  true  rules,  but  it  had  not 
been  his  fortune  to  meet  with  such  ;  perhaps  his  views  were 
visionary.  He  might  not  be  sufficiently  enlightened ;  his 
conscience  might  be  too  sensitive.  "  Possibly  he  was  wrong," 
and  then  he  brought  to  mind  all  he  remembered  from  the 
scriptures  of  what  was  enjoined  ;  all  these  seemed  clear.  "  It 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         267 

was  not  possible  he  could  be  mistaken,  he  must  abide  by  them. 
Perhaps  he  had  shunned  labor  with  his  hands.  He  had 
been  too  sanguine  in  his  expectations  in  the  city,  and  not  suffi 
ciently  satisfied  to  endure  the  toil  of  the  country.  Would  it 
not  be  better  for  him  to  go  back  ?  not  to  his  former  home, 
that  he  could  never  do  ;  but  he  might  find  work  as  a  laborer 
in  other  places ;  he  was  not  rugged  indeed,  not  so  much  so  as 
when  he  left  the  country,  but  in  time  he  might  grow  stronger." 
But  some  path  he  must  decide  upon  without  delay. 

And  then  other  views  and  feelings  would  present  them 
selves.  "  Must  he  forever  relinquish  the  thought  of  rising 
above  his  present  condition  of  dependence !  He  loved  the 
finer  things  of  life.  Was  that  wrong  ?  Had  he  not  found 
among  those  of  high  station,  as  much  open-hearted  kindness, 
as  pure  pity,  and  more  enlarged  views  than  he  had  ever 
known  to  exist  among  those  with  whom  he  had  associated  in 
lower  life.  Did  he  not  feel  more  at  home  among  them,  and 
must  he  go  back  and  spend  the  rest  of  his  days  a  mere 
drudge,  without  the  physical  strength  to  cope  with  the  day  la 
borer,  and  without  the  hope  of  meeting  with  congenial 
spirits  ?" 

And  last  of  all,  the  image  of  Louise  arose  to  view.  "  Must 
he  forever  give  up  all  hope  in  reference  to  her  ?"  And  now 
he  found,  that  in  spite  of  all  his  pretended  resignation  of  that 
lovely  object,  his  heart  was  still  clinging  there.  Hopelessly 
indeed,  ever  since  his  last  interview,  but  still  unwilling  to  let 
go  its  hold.  And  now,  as  in  imagination  he  relinquishes 
all  prospect  of  advancement  by  his  efforts  in  the  city,  and  be 
holds  himself  laboring  through  his  youth,  and  manhood,  and 
even  to  grey  hairs,  without  the -faintest  hope  that  he  could 
gain  a  station  in  which  he  could  indulge  the  idea  of  a  con 
nection  with  her,  his  heart  revolts.  "  Some  effort  he  must 
make — he  would  yet  do  and  dare,  rather  than  cast  from  his 
mind  her  beautiful  image." 

And  thus  hour  after  hour  passed,  and  his  young  mind 
found  no  rest.  His  bed  was  to  him  a  troubled  sea,  and  the 
morning  hours  were  gathering  their  numbers  ere  he  could 
lose  himself  in  sleep  ;  and  then  it  was  not  sleep — a  mere  con 
tinuation  of  the  tumult,  only  the  scenes  more  changeful  and 
less  satisfactory. 

When  he  awoke,  however,  as  the  day  was  breaking,  he 


268  TKUE  TO   THE   LAST. 

was  conscious  of  feeling  quite  unwell.  He  attempted  to  get 
up,  but  a  sudden  dizziness,  accompanied  with  pain,  made  him 
again  resume  his  position ;  and  when  summoned  to  breakfast 
he  had  to  decline  the  invitation,  upon  which  Mrs.  Barton  im 
mediately  came  to  his  bedside,  and  pronounced  that  "  he  had 
a  high  fever,"  and  insisted  upon  calling  her  doctor.  "  He 
lived  close  by,"  she  said,  "  and  was  an  excellent  doctor,  and 
low  in  his  charges." 

Henry  felt  too  unwell  to  make  any  opposition,  and  indeed 
he  needed  good  advice  and  immediate  attention.  He  had 
gone  a  little  beyond  what  his  physical  organization  was  equal 
to.  Sensitive  to  a  high  degree,  unwilling  at  any  time  to  set 
up  his  own  opinion  in  opposition  to  others,  naturally  yielding, 
and  especially  anxious  to  please,  and  approve  himself  to  those 
above  him,  and  with  peculiar  feelings  of  regard  for  those 
with  whom  he  had  been  living,  it  required  a  mighty  impell 
ing  force  to  enable  him  to  make  the  stand  he  did,  and  under 
its  trying  circumstances.  It  was  no  reckless,  hasty  im 
pulse;  there  was  no  passion  of  anger;  his  heart  was  at  the 
very  time  overflowing  with  tender  emotion.  It  was  a  firm 
adherence  to  what  he  thought  to  be  right,  when  his  steadfast 
ness  resulted  in  a  separation  from  those  who  had  kindly  treated 
him,  and  the  loss  of  a  fair  prospect  for  the  future ! 

This  of  itself  was  no  common  tax  on  the  strength  of  a 
youth  at  his  peculiar  age ;  but  in  addition  to  all  this  were  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  was  placed.  Without  kindred, 
without  a  home — alone  in  the  world  !  All  had  contributed 
to  the  excitement  of  his  nervous  system. 

The  physician  was  enabled  soon  to  define  clearly  the  symp 
toms  of  his  disease,  and  administered  accordingly.  Forbid 
ding  company — of  which  there  was  not  much  danger — and 
ordering  that  he  should  be  kept  perfectly  quiet,  and  that  his 
attendants  should  abstain  from  conversation  either  with  him 
or  with  each  other.  "  He  was  in  great  danger,"  he  said, 
"  and  the  nicest  care  must  be  observed,  or  the  consequences 
may  be  very  sad." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THREE  weeks  had  passed  since  Henry  was  first  laid  pros 
trate  by  disease  in  the  little  attic  room  of  the  Bartons. 

Since  then,  he  had  been  lost  to  all  consciousness  of  passing 
events.  When  he  came  to  himself,  it  was  after  a  long  and 
sweet  sleep.  His  friend  Evart  Marston  was  sitting  beside  his 
bed,  and  quietly  moving  a  large  fan.  As  his  bright  eye  fixed 
its  gaze  on  Evart,  he  spoke. 

'  Evart !" 

'  Henry  !  —  You  are  better,  are  you  not  ?" 

'  Evart,  where  am  I  ?" 

'  You  are  at  the  house  of  our  friend,  Mr.  Vernon." 

'  I  was  not  here  when  I  was  taken  sick." 

"  No,  you  were  not.  I  will  tell  you  the  particulars  at  an 
other  time.  Keep  your  mind  at  rest.  You  are  among 
friends." 

"  I  must  have  given  a  great  deal  of  trouble." 

"  I  told  you  that  you  are  among  friends  ;  and  there  is  not 
one  of  those  who  have  been  about  you  but  feels  it  rather  a 
privilege  than  otherwise  to  do  something  for  you." 

"  They  must  be  very  good  then,  for  I  know  I  must  have 
given  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  why 
so  much  kindness  should  be  shown  to  me." 

"  I  could  tell  you  ;  but  I  wish  you  now  to  endeavor  to 
sleep  again.  You  are  better,  much  better,  but  need  more 
rest.  I  think  you  will  have  friends  calling  here  this  evening 
— they  usually  come  at  that  time — and  if  you  get  a  little 
more  strength  by  another  quiet  nap,  we  shall  be  able  to  let 
them  come  in." 

And  Henry  yielded  to  the  request  of  his  friend,  and  again 
he  slept.  Mr.  Vernon  came  into  the  room  with  a  noiseless 
step,  and  immediately  behind  him  came  Louise. 

Evart  whispered  to  the  former,  but  so  as  to  be  heard  also 
by  the  young  lady. 

"  He  is  much  better  ;  he  has  been  awake,  and  is  perfectly 
himself;  and  see  now  how  sweetly  he  sleeps  !" 

269 


270  TBUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

"  The  Lord  be  praised  !  Yes,  he  sleeps  sweetly  —  he 
breathes  naturally.  Come  here,  my  dear !"  And  Mr.  Vernon 
put  his  arm  kindly  about  Louise,  and  she  advanced  and  stood 
beside  him  as  he  looked  at  Henry.  Her  hands  were  clasped, 
and  with  intense  interest  she  gazed  upon  the  lovely  youth ; — 
pale,  emaciated,  but  still  lovely.  His  dark  brown  hair  lay 
off  from  his  fair  forehead,  smoothed  nicely  by  the  hand  of 
his  friend  Evart ;  its  long  locks  curled  upon  the  pillow  ;  and 
his  hand,  now  delicate  as  her  own,  lay  upon  the  outer  cover 
ing. 

"  Do  you  think  he  is  better  ? — He  looks  so  very  pale  ! " 
and  Louise  raised  her  eyes  toward  Mr.  Vernon  ;  the  tears 
were  flowing,  but  she  cared  not  to  conceal  them. 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  Louise,  he  is  better,  evidently  better — you 
have  not  seen  him  before?"  and  then  turning  towards  Evart, 
"  You  had  better  retire  a  while  now ;  I  will  remain  by  him 
for  the  present." 

And  Evart,  almost  with  reluctance,  obeyed ;  but  he  could 
confide  Henry  to  Mr.  Vernon's  care. 

"  We  had  better  be  seated ;  our  presence  will  not  be  so 
likely  to  disturb  him  when  he  awakes — but  perhaps  you  wish 
to  go  too?" 

Louise  looked  imploringly  towards  Mr.  Vernon. 

"  May  I  stay — at  least  while  you  do  ?" 

He  moved  a  chair  gently  towards  her,  and  she  seated  her 
self,  and  taking  up  the  fan  which  Evart  had  laid  upon  the 
bed,  began  moving  it  gently  over  the  pale  sleeper. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  brought  Louise  at  her  own  earnest  re 
quest.  Hitherto  he  had  not  thought  it  best,  but  the  symptoms 
of  the  sick  youth  appeared  so  much  more  favorable  when  he 
was  last  in  the  room,  that  he  now  yielded  to  her  wishes. 

He  knew  how  anxious  she  had  been  ;  for  she  did  not  con 
ceal  her  feelings  from  Mr.  Vernon ;  and  indeed  all  had  been 
anxious.  Henry  had  been  very  ill.  Death  seemed  to  be 
asking  him  for  a  prey;  and  Louise  felt  too  deeply  concerned 
to  be  able,  even  if  she  had  wished,  to  hide  the  feelings  of  her 
heart.  Those  feelings  had  never  changed  ;  although  at  their 
last  interview,  for  reasons  which  she  thought  were  all  suffi 
cient,  she  had  manifested  much  reserve.  They  had  been 
aroused  to  intensity  by  the  fear  that  she  and  Henry  were  to 
be  separated  forever.  She  would  have  flown  to  his  bedside ; 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         271 

she  would  have  tended  him  untiringly,  as  a  sister  might  have 
done ;  but  she  dare  not  ask  to  do  it ;  and  Mr.  Vernon  had 
advised  her  not  to  see  him — it  could  only  distress  her,  and 
be  no  relief  to  him,  and  she  had  yielded ; '  and  as  every  day 
and  hour  passed,  he  listened  for  tidings  from  the  sick-rooms 
until  hope  had  almost  expired.  And  now,  as  she  looks  at  his 
placid  countenance,  and  hears  his  soft,  regular  breathing,  and 
thinks  that  he  will  again  be  well,  her  heart  swells  with  emo 
tion — "  never  again  will  she  think  of  herself,  but  only  of  his 
welfare;  she  will  have  a  fair,  clear  understanding  with  him 
as  to  their  relation  to  each  other.  It  can  never  be  but  as 
brother  and  sister ;  to  that  he  cannot  object ;  and,  when  once 
understood,  there  need  be  no  reserve.  She  could  not  be  in 
his  way  then,  and  he  could  be  her  guide  ;  and,  as  they  grew 
older,  she  could  lean  upon  him  ;  she  could  unfold  her  heart 
to  him,  and  he  to  her ;  and,  if  he  loved  or  was  beloved  by 
others,  to  see  him  happy  would  be  enough  for  her." 

It  was,  indeed,  as  many  who  read  these  lines  will  say,  "  a 
very  childish  notion  ;"  but  Louise  was  in  earnest,  and  her  pur 
pose,. onee  formed,  was  not  easily  shaken. 

When  Henry  again  awoke,  the  first  object  that  met  his 
eye  was  the  bright  face  of  Louise,  with  a  smile  just  breaking 
upon  it ;  he  raised  his  hand  towards  her — she  grasped  it. 

"  And  you  too  !  oh,  how  kind ! — my  friends  seem  to  be  all 
about  me ;  how  wonderful  it  is  !" 

"  And  where  should  friends  be,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  rising 
and  laying  his  hand  on  Henry's  forehead,  "  but  around  our  bed 
when  we  are  sick  ?  and  I  want  to  tell  you  that  your  friends 
think  a  great  deal  of  you ;  you  have  enlisted  their  hearts 
strongly  in  your  favor." 

"  It  must  be  so,  or  I  should  not  be  in  your  house,  Mr. 
Vernon,  surrounded  with  every  comfort ;  but  why  it  should 
be  so  I  cannot  tell.  My  thanks,  sir,  are  but  a  poor  compen 
sation  for  ail  your  kindness  and  trouble." 

"You  are  much  better,  Henry,  therefore  I  can  venture  to 
say  a  few  things  to  you  which  you  ought  to  know.  You 
seem  to  feel  much  astonished  that  you  should  be  thus  taken 
care  of,  and  that  warm  friends  should  thus  cluster  around  you. 
But  you  cannot  surely  think  it  strange  that  Evart,  who  has 
just  left  your  bed-side,  should  be  about  you,  and  night  and 
day  watching  you  with  intense  interest." 


272  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

"  Ob,  1  know  he  has  a  noble,  generous  heart." 

"  Yes,  he  has,  and  I  believe  he  will  make  a  noble  man ; 
but  Evart  feels  that  but  for  your  interposition  he  would  have 
been  ruined  ;  lost  to  himself,  his  family,  and  the  world.  Your 
example,  your  advice  " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  it  cannot  be !" 

"  Give  God  the  glory,  but  be  thankful  that  he  has  enabled 
you  to  be  the  means  of  rescuing  a  dear  friend  from  the  path 
of  the  destroyer.  And  do  you  know  what  you  have  done  for 
me,  Henry  ?" 

"  For  you,  Mr.  Vernon  !  Oh,  nothing,  sir,  I  am  sure  ;  but  I 
hope,  if  my  life  is  spared,  to  be  able  to  show  you  that  at  least 
I  have  not  an  ungrateful  heart." 

"  If  you  live  many  years,  Henry,  and  I  should  do  for  you 
a  hundred  times  what  I  have  now  done,  I  shall  still  feel 
that  my  debt  to  you  is  not  cancelled." 

Both  Louise  and  Henry  looked  at  Mr.  Vernon  in  great  as 
tonishment. 

"  But  perhaps  this  young  lady  will  get  tired  before  my  story 
shall  be  finished,  and  may  prefer  to  take  her  leave." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  am  here  as  his  sister ;  what  concerns  him  con 
cerns  me ;  brother  and  sister,  Henry  1"  and  again  she  took 
his  hand. 

Henry  looked  at  her  with  every  emotion  of  his  heart 
sparkling  from  his  bright  eye — brighter  and  darker  than 
ever  now  from  contrast  with  his  pale,  fair  face,  and  he  pressed 
that  hand  as  he  had  never  dared  to  do  before. 

Mr.  Vernon  made  no  reply  to  the  remarks  of  Louise ;  he 
understood  well  her  meaning,  and  felt  that  she  knew  how  to 
guard  herself  even  while  letting  out  the  fullness  of  heart. 

"  Well,  I  will  begin  my  story,  and  will  try  to  make  it  as 
short  as  possible,  for  the  sake  of  this  sick  man ;  but  he  must 
promise  to  keep  his  feelings  under  all  subjection." 

"  I  will,  sir ;  but  I  feel  so  much  better.  Oh,  sir,  it  is 
enough  to  make  me  well  at  once ;  to  have  such  friends." 

"  I  have  a  friend  with  whom  I  grew  up  from  boyhood,  we 
went  to  school  together,  we  played  together,  we  visited  to 
gether,  we  read  together,  we  told  each  other  every  secret  feel 
ing  ;  we  were  like  Jonathan  and  David,  we  loved  each  other 
as  our  own  soul. 

"  As  we  advanced  to  manhood  different  pursuits  divided  us 


273 

somewhat ;  we  could  not  be  so  constantly  together  as  in  our 
younger  days,  but  oui  mutual  regard  was  unabated. 

"  He  entered  into  active  business  and  proved  himself  a 
virtuous,  upright,  straight-forward,  honorable  man.  Shrewd 
in  his  calculations,  untiring  in  his  attention  to  business,  open- 
hearted  to  all  who  needed,  ready  to  help  those  who  were  not 
so  fortunate  as  himself,  and  gaining  the  confidence  of  all  who 
had  business  relations  with  him,  and  he  never  disappointed 
their  trust. 

''  I  said  we  were  friends,  that  we  had  a  strong  affection  for 
each  other ;  and  so  we  had ;  but  on  one  great  subject  wo 
could  not  agree — I  mean  our  relation  to  God  as  our  Re 
deemer  and  king,  friend,  and  final  judge. 

"  Long  did  I  labor  with  him,  and  most  earnest  have  been 
my  endeavors  to  bring  him  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  duty  as  a 
dependent  creature,  as  a  needy  sinner;  but  his  heart  would 
not  yield ;  and  fearing,  lest  by  continued  appeals  on  the  sub 
ject,  he  might  become  disgusted,  and  more  determined  in  his 
opposition,  I  at  length  forbore ;  our  friendship  remained  firm, 
but  between  him  and  me  on  those  momentous  questions 
which  involve  our  eternal  destiny,  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed. 
So  it  seemed  to  me ;  it  was  a  sad  drawback  on  my  happiness, 
for  I  had  no  friend  so  dear  to  me  as  Henry  Blenham." 

"  Mr.  Blenham  ?  Mr.  Henry  Blenham,  Mr.  Vernon  I" 

"  Yes,  Henry — Mr.  Henry  Blenham,  with  whom  you  have 
been  living.  My  friend,  and  dearer  to  me  now  than  ever, 
and  all  through  your  means,  Henry !" 

"  How  can  it  be,  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  Did  you  ever  read  the  third  chapter  of  Proverbs, 
Henry  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  ;  I  know  it  by  heart." 

"  Then  you  will  remember  this  passage,  '  My  son,  let  thy 
heart  keep  my  commandments,  so  shalt  thou  find  favor  and 
good  understanding  in  the  sight  of  God  and  man."  You  will 
be  able  to  comprehend  what  I  mean  in  reference  to  this  pas 
sage,  when  I  tell  you  that  the  noble  stand  you  took  to  save 
\  our  conscience,  has  been  owned  of  God  in  making  it  the 
means  of  a  mighty  change  in  the  views  and  feelings  of  that 
gentleman.  You  need  not  look  with  such  surpiise  at  me, 
Henry,  I  have  heard  the  whole  story,  and  I  could  tell  you 
much  more,  but  at  present  you  have  heard  enough." 

12* 


TRUE  TO   THE   LAST      OK 


At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Evart  entered,  and 
beckoning  Mr.  Vernon  from  the  bedside,  spoke  a  few  words 
to  him  in  a  low  tone. 

To  which  Mr.  Vernon  replied  — 

"  Certainly  ;  invite  him  up  here."  And  then  returning  to 
the  bedside,  laid  his  hand  on  the  head  of  Louise. 

"  If  you  can  consent  to  leave  your  brother  a  little  while 
under  my  care,  I  promise  you  he  shall  be  well  seen  to." 

Louise  smiled  as  she  rose  to  depart  ;  but  as  she  turned  her 
parting  glance  at  Henry,  she  saw  that  for  some  reason  he 
looked  sad.  '"  Was  it  that  the  title  Mr.  Vernon  had  just 
given  him  did  not  affect  him  pleasantly  I"  She  took  his 
hand  to  say  good  bye,  he  raised  it  to  his  lips  and  pressed  it 
there.  She  was  about  to  say  something,  but  feared,  lest  it 
might  disturb  him  ;  so  she  suffered  him  for  once,  the  first 
in  all  their  intimacy,  to  do  that  which  a  lover  might  have 
done.  Mr.  Vernon  was  not  present,  for  he  was  just,  opening 
the  door,  as  he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  Louise  fixed 
her  eye  on  Henry  a  moment,  but  she  could  not  say  what  she 
felt  ought  to  be  said.  She  withdrew  her  hand  and  left  the 
room. 

It  was  probably  not  very  judicious  to  admit  another 
visitor  ;  but  Henry  appeared  so  much  himself,  and  Mr.  Ver 
non  knew  that  the  person  announced  had  been  most  pain 
fully  anxious  on  Henry's  account,  and  had  obtained  a  pro 
mise  of  being  allowed  to  see  him  the  moment  his  reason 
should  be  restored.  It  -was  Mr.  Blenham,  and  he  had  his 
own  reasons  for  it.  He  had  felt  most  acutely  the  circum 
stances  which  had  resulted  in  Henry's  sickness  ;  he  had  fre 
quently  watched  with  him  ;  he  had  looked  upon  the  young 
sufferer  as  he  lay  on  his  restless  bed,  his  fine  countenance  at 
times  flushed  with  feverish  excitement,  and  then  pale  as 
though  life  was  departing.  He  had  felt  his  excited  pulse  and 
counted  its  rapid  beat  ;  he  had  heard  his  own  name  again 
and  again  spoken,  but  always  in  kindness  ;  even  the  distem 
pered  brain  had  not  caused  the  least  unpleasant  feeling  to 
disturb  the  mind.  And  he  had  shed  the  silent  tear  and 
breathed  an  earnest  prayer  for  one  more  opportunity  to  com 
mune  with  him  whom  he  now  regarded  with  peculiar  in 
terest. 

Mr.  Blenham  had  learned  what  no  lesson  in  life  had  before 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         275 

taught  him.  He  now  believed  religion  to  be  a  reality ;  "  it 
was  no  phantom  of  the  imagination  ;  he  had  witnessed  its 
power ;  he  had  seen  it  in  its  beauty ;  chastening  the  feelings, 
sustaining  the  conscience,  upholding  a  weak  and  dependent 
youth  in  an  hour  of  severe  trial,  and  enabling  him  to  face  a 
frowning  world  alone  and  unfriended,  willing  to  dare  any 
extremity  rather  than  violate  a  command  of  God. 

He  had  taken  the  lesson  to  his  heart ;  he  had  communed 
with  himself  in  secret;  he  had  examined  the  source  whence 
that  youth  had  received  such  unearthly  energy  ;  he  had  gone 
with  his  new  and  deep-rooted  impressions  to  an  old  and 
much-valued  friend,  and  under  his  guidance  had  found  a  new 
life,  a  better  way.  Hope  had  shed  her  light  upon  his  mind, 
and  with  the  humility  of  a  little  child  he  was  now  a  searcher 
of  the  blessed  page,  and  had  begun  to  tread  the  narrow 
way. 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  if  his  heart  agonized  to  pour  out 
its  thoughts  and  feelings  to  one  who,  under  God,  had  been 
the  instrument  of  the  happy  change. 

As  Louise  left  the  room,  Mr.  Vernon  took  the  arm  of  his 
friend  Blenham,  and  led  him  up  to  the  bedside.  Henry  put 
forth  his  hand,  and  his  clear  eye  turned  towards  his  former 
master  with  most  touching  tenderness.  A  smile,  too,  was 
upon  his  bright,  open  features,  as  Mr.  Bleuham  grasped 
warmly  the  offered  hand. 

"  You  are  better,  Henry  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  sir,  I  feel  quite  well." 

"  I  will  leave  you  a  few  moments,"  said  Mr.  Vernon. 
"  Henry,  remember,  you  must  not  do  the  talking." 

'•I  will  see  to  that.  Henry  has  not  much  to  say  to  me ; 
but  I  have  many  things  to  say  to  him.  I  shall,  however,  say 
but  little  to  him  now ;  I  will  not  allow  him  to  fatigue  him 
self,  I  promise  you." 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Vernon  had  retired,  the  gentleman  took  his 
geat,  and  before  he  had  time  to  speak,  Henry  began — 

"  I  have  wished  much  to  see  you,  sir,  for  I  fear  that  under 
my  excitement  at  the  time  of  our  separation,  I  may  not  have 
spoken  as  respectfully  as  I  might  have  done.  I  am  under 
such  obligations  to  you,  sir,  for  all  your  kindness,  that  it  has 
troubled  me  lest  I  should  have  appeared  unmindful  of  it. 
Believe  me,  Mr.  Blenham,  I  shall  never  forget  it." 


276  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  |   OR, 

"  Stop,  Henry  ;  you  know  our  good  friend,  Mr.  Vernon,  has 
laid  an  injunction  upon  you,  and  I  have  promised  to  see  it 
enforced.  But  I  tell  you  most  truly,  that  neither  in  your  man 
ner  nor  by  your  words  did  you  do  anything  that  was  not  per 
fectly  respectful  and  proper.  My  design  is  not  now  to  recall 
the  past ;  you  are  too  feeble  to  bear  much  excitement.  All  I 
wish  is  to  embrace  this,  the  first  opportunity  I  have  had  for 
so  doing,  to  tell  you  that  you  was  right,  and  I  was  wrong." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Blenham,  do  not  say  so." 

"  But  I  must  say  it,  and  now  my  wish  is,  Henry,  that 
hereafter  you  Jook  upon  me  as  a  friend." 

Henry  covered  his  face. 

"  I  believe,  now,  I  fully  comprehend  your  character,  and 
after  this,  should  you  be  raised  up  and  be  willing  to  place 
yourself  in  your  old  relation  to  me,  it  will  be  under  new  and 
better  auspices.  I  wish  you  to  look  upon  me  as  a  friend — 
one  to  whom  you  can  come  with  all  your  wishes  or  difficul 
ties,  and  with  perfect  freedom.  I  shall  confide  in  you,  after 
this,  without  a  doubt ;  and  to  further  your  interest  will  be 

now  as  great  a  pleasure  as  it  would  to  advance  those  of  a 

i       i      £ 
younger  brother. 

Henry  could  n^i  speak ;  he  put  forth  his  hand,  and  it  was 
received  with  such  a  cordial  grasp,  that  he  felt  assured  he  was 
not  only  restored  to  favor,  but  admitted  to  a  station  he  had 
never  dreamed  of  before. 

"  We  understand  each  other,  Henry  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,  I  understand  that  you  are  very  kind ;  and  if 
my  life  is  spared,  I  hope  to  prove  to  you,  by  my  faithful  atten 
tion  to  your  interests,  that  I  am  not  ungrateful." 

"  I  have  no  fear  of  that.  I  have  much  to  say  to  you ; 
some  things  personally,  of  myself;  and  some  things  in  refer 
ence  to  the  future,  for  you  ;  but  we  will  not  touch  upon  them 
now.  Keep  your  mind  perfectly  at  ease  ;  have  no  care  about 
matters  until  you  get  well ;  and,  as  you  can,  thank  God  that 
he  has  enabled  you  to  do  your  duty  so  manfully.  And  now 
good  bye,  Henry ;  I  must  leave  you,  for  I  suppose  Mr.  Ver 
non  will  be  anxious,  lest  I  say  too  much." 

And  thus  they  parted.  The  past  forgotten,  except  so  far  as 
its  scenes  were  the  cause  of  grateful  praise  to  Him  who,  in 
great  mercy,  "  bringeth  forth  good  out  of  evil,  and  causeth 
the  wrath  of  man  to  praise  him." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         277 

Henry  could  only  wonder  at  the  strange  events,  which 
seemed  to  be  impelling  him  along,  without,  as  he  thought, 
any  agency  of  his  own. 

His  little  shallop  had  been  safely  carried  through  a  stormy 
sea — -gentle  waves  were  now  beneath  him ;  green  hills,  upon 
which  the  bright  sun  was  shedding  a  peaceful  light,  were  in 
full  view ;  and  a  fair  breeze  was  wafting  him  towards  a  secure 
harbor. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HENRY  had  learned,  through  Evart,  some  particulars 
as  to  the  circumstances  which  led  to  his  removal  from 
the  Bartons'  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Vernou.  But  Evart  had 
only  known  the  bare  facts  of  the  case,  viz.,  that  Mr.  Vernon 
had  accidentally  called  there,  and  then  for  the  first  time 
learned  that  Henry  was  there,  and  very  sick.  That  he  went 
into  the  room,  and  found  it  a  small,  uncomfortable  place,  and 
that  there  would  be  no  prospect  of  his  recovery  in  such  a 
confined  atmosphere,  and  where  the  heat  in  the  day-time  was 
very  oppressive  ;  and  that,  in  company  with  the  physician,  he 
had  procured  from  the  hospital  suitable  means  of  conveyance, 
and  had  him  removed  to  his  own  house. 

A  few  evenings  after  the  scenes  related  in  the  last  chapter, 
a  visitor  was  announced,  and  Henry  had  the  pleasure  of  see 
ing  his  friend  Belden  enter  the  room. 

A  great  improvement  had  taken  place  in  the  health  of  the 
patient,  and  Mr.  Belden,  as  he  took  Henry's  hand  and  shook 
it  heartily,  exclaimed — 

"  Can't  hardly  believe  my  eyes  !     Well,  ain't  you  ?" 

"  Very  nearly.  I  am  getting  well  fast ;  but  I  should  never 
have  recovered,  I  am  very  sure,  if  it  had  not  been  for  you, 
Mr.  Belden,  and  the  rest  of  my  friends." 

"  Not  me  !     What  have  I  done  ?     Don't  speak  about  it." 

"You  have  done  a  great  deal  for  me  ;  you  have  sat  up  with 
me,  I  don't  know  how  often,  but  they  tell  me,  a  great  many 
times." 

"  Hold  your  tongue  ;  don't  talk  about  that.  All  the  sitting 
up  with  you,  my  boy,  wouldn't  have  amounted  to  anything, 
if  you  hadn't  been  got  out  of  that  hole.  Whew  !  it  makes 
me  feel  smothery  to  think  of  it." 

"  I  do  not  remember  much  about  it,  Mr.  Belden,  only  I 
remember  seeing  you  there.  You  came,  I  think,  the  first 
night  I  was  so  sick ;  but  I  believe  I  must  have  been  delirious 
soon  after  you  came,  for  I  have  no  recollection  of  seeing  you 
go  away,  and  it  all  seems  to  me  now  like  an  unpleasant  dream." 

278 


TKTJE   TO   THE   LAST.  279 

"I  guess  it  must  have  been.  I  liked  to  have  got  to 
dreaming  in  the  same  way  myself." 

"  But  how  came  you  to  find  me  ?" 

"  Thought  likely  you'd  gone  to  the  old  burrow  :  you  see  we 
got  through  all  our  work  pretty  soon  after  you  left.  Some 
thing  had  turned  up — don't  know  what,  only  folks  were  out 
of  sorts — dumpish — sit  still,  doing  nothing — thinking,  I 
guess,  maybe  reading  that  scrap  of  paper  you  left." 

"  Whaj  paper,  Mr.  Belden  ?" 

"  That  thing  you  carry  about  with  you — keep  so  care 
fully.  Didn't  you  know  I  had  it  ?" 

"  I  had  forgotten.     But  how  did  Mr.  Blenham  see  it  ?" 

"  Handed  it  to  him  :  he  thought,  you  see,  that  maybe 
you  was  a  little  set — stubborn,  self-willed,  notional,  and  all 
sorts  of  things.  It  ain't  so,  says  I — gentle  as  a  lamb  !" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Belden!" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir ;  let  me  tell  my  story.  Told  him 
you  couldn't  help  it,  and  showed  him  the  document.  With 
that  he  goes  to  the  desk,  and  whether  he  was  reading,  or 
whether  he  was  thinking,  or  whether  he  was  praying,  can't 
say — he  wasn't  writing,  though.  Gets  up  at  last,  and  marches 
into  the  front  room — took  some  exercise  up  and  down  the 
room.  Thinks  I,  there's  something  out  of  kilter — something 
brewing — I  shall  get  walking  ticket  nextl  Then  comes 
back — long  sober  face.  '  Mr.  Belden,  I  will  not  detain  you 
any  longer ;  much  obliged  for  your  readiness  to  serve  me, 
but  I  prefer  to  have  the  rest  of  the  matters  I  gave  you  to  do 
left  until  the  morrow.'  Civil — very  soft  spoken.  Queer 
doings,  thinks  I,  but  all  right ;  obeyed  orders — always  do 
tbat ;  cut  for  home — took  dinner — went  to  bed — felt  muggy, 
sour — black,  blue,  green,  all  colors ;  slept  all  day  and  all 
night.  Next  morning  went  to  work :  Mr.  Blenharn  comes 
in — still,  sober  face — low  voice.  Says  he,  '  Have  you  seen 
Henry  ?'  '  Hav'nt,'  says  I.  '  Do  you  know  where  he's  gone  ?' 
'  Don't,'  says  I ;  '  but  guess  he's  gone  to  the  old  plaoe  up 
town.'  '  Will  you  this  evening  try  to  see  him — that  is,  if  he 
does  not  call  here  to-day  ?'  Glad  to  do  so,  took  supper,  and 
put  for  Oliver  street.  Woman  all  in  trouble  wringing  her 
hands  ;  doctor  there,  too — long  face.  You  was  sick,  very — 
high  fever — out  at  times  :  fancied  it  would  go  hard.  '  Can  I 
see  him  .''  Went  up  into  the  cockloft — air  close,  warm. 


280  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OE, 

You  knew  me,  but  you  looked  strange — eyes  wild,  glassy  ; 
skin  hot,  dry.  Thinks  I,  there's  no  going  away  to-night. 
Takes  off  coat  and  buckles  to  :  rather  stormy  night — I  mean 
in  the  room — talking,  tossing,  groaning,  crying,  laughing, 
but  no  sleeping.  Worse  by  morning.  Wanted  to  stay,  but 
couldn't.  Told  the  woman,  '  would  be  here  to-night.'  Went 
off — head  boozy,  limbs  shaky.  Told  Mr.  Blenham  state  of 
the  case.  He  sat  down  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  ;  felt 
bad,  very — I  knew  he  did ;  pitied  him,  but  no  help  for  it ; 
things  must  go  as  they  must  sometimes,  you  can't  stop  'em. 
At  last,  says  he,  '  Mr.  Belden,  please  give  me  the  direction  ; 
put  it  down  on  paper.  He  went  off. ;  saw  no  more  of  him 
all  day ;  shut  up  the  office,  and,  after  supper,  put  away  for 
Oliver  street.  Mr.  Blenharn  was  by  you.  I  saw  how  it 
was — never  felt  so  bad  in  my  life.  Says  he,  'Mr.  Belden, 
Henry  will  die  here  ;  it  is  no  fit  place  for  a  sick  person — he 
must  be  removed.  Where  can  you  get  a  place  for  him  ?  our 
house  is  too  far  off.'  '  It  is,'  says  I ;  '  the  hospital  would  be 
better — nearer  by.'  'I  know  it,'  says  he,  '  but  I  cannot  have 
him  go  there.  I  will  pay  any  price,  I  don't  care  how  much, 
if  we  can  only  get  him  into  a  comfortable  place.'  Noble 
fellow,  thinks  I,  if  you  only  feel  so.  He's  a  man,  Henry,  a 
whole  man,  got  a  heart  and  soul  in  him." 

"  That  he  has.     I  hope  I  never  shall  forget  his  kindness." 

"  I  shan't.  He's  fixed  me — ain't  my  own  man  any 
longer — gone  for  him,  body  and  soul.  Says  he,  '  I  must  see 
Mr.  Vernon,  his  house  is  near  at  hand.'  No  sooner  said 
than  done — in  comes  Mr.  Vernon  !" 

"  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  Yes ;  don't  be  frightened.  I  was,  though ;  when  I  see  the 
man  come  walking  in  after  the  woman  of  the  house  so  soon 
after  his  name  had  been  spoken,  I  began  to  think  it  looked 
pokerish  !  But  I  found  out  how  it  was.  It  seems  there  was 
a  woman  living  near  by  who  was  going,  as  they  call  it,  '  the 
long  road,'  but  I  should  call  it  the  short  road — it's  soon 
travelled  over,  at  any  rate — but  she's  got  the  consumption, 
and  ain't  long  to  live,  that's  the  say.  She  wanted  to  see  Mr. 
Vernon — must  see  him  before  she  went — couldn't  no  how 
die  in  peace  if  she  didn't — so  those  good  folks  had  found  out 
through  you  where  he  lived,  and  off  goes  the  man  and  gives 
the  news  ;  and  it  seems  Mr.  Vernon  was  as  anxious  to  see 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         281 

her  as  she  was  to  see  him,  for  he  came  straight  down  that 
afternoon — that  is  what  the  folks  below  told  me.  And  there 
was  a  great  to-do  about  something — I  don't  know  what. 
The  man  and  woman  below  were  there,  and  the  lawyers 
were  there,  and  all  that." 

"  Did  you  hear  the  woman's  name  ?" 

"  Can't  say ;  ain't  apt  to  remember  names,  especially 
women's;  always  kept  shy  of  them — they're  apt  to  make 
trouble — and  a  man  is  just  as  like  as  not  to  get  his  fingers 
burnt  if  he  meddles  with  them.  World  just  as  well  without 
them." 

"  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Belden !» 

"  I  say  yes.  Now,  you  see,  from  what  I  hear,  all  this  fuss 
is  come  of  some  ugly  she-serpent,  who  enticed  a  young  girl 
to  steal  a  baby,  and  then  made  her  swear  upon  the  three 
parts  of  the  Bible  that  she  would  never  reveal  what  she  had 
done  to  living  soul  while  that  she-devil  lived.  But  I  guess 
the  fear  of  the  law  would  have  tied  her  tongue  a  little  more 
effectually  than  the  oath — that  is,  if  there  is  a  law  against 
stealing  babies.  I  wish  some  one  would  steal  the  babies  out 

of  our  boarding-house But  where  was  I  ?  Oh,  I  was 

telling  about  Mr.  Vernon." 

"  But  do  tell  me,  if  you  can,  Mr.  Belden,  the  name  of  the 
woman." 

"Rot  it!  I  don't  know  it — can't  remember  names.  I 
believe  its  Jericho — sounded  like  it,  at  any  rate." 

"  Was  it  not  Jeralman  ?" 

"  Like  as  not — or  Jerusalem,  or  Jezebel,  or  some  such 
name:  there  was  a  J  in  it,  at  any  rate.  But  just  hold  your 
tongue,  and  let  the  woman  alone — she  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you  nor  you  with  her — and  hear  my  story.  You  put 
me  out — where  was  I  ?  Oh,  I  was  telling  how  Mr.  Vernon 
happened  to  come  in;  he'd  heard  below  about  the  sickness, 
and  up  he  comes.  It  seems  he's  used  to  the  business — keeps 
running  round  among  sick  folks,  and  poor  folks,  and  dis 
tressed  folks  of  one  kind  or  another.  Business  enough,  but  I 
guess  not  much  money  made  by  it — thinks  ahead  maybe — 
looks  out  for  pay  in  the  long  run,  when  the  books  will  be  ba 
lanced.  Maybe  he's  right — clever  fellow,  any  how.  It  made 
my  heart  jump  towards  him,  just  to  see  his  smooth,  mild  face 
ben  ling  over  you,  and  his  hand  smoothing  your  hot  fore- 


282  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

head,  while  his  lips  were  speaking  such  kind  words— you  lay 
in  a  few  minutes  as  still  as  a  kitten.  And  then  he  looked 
round  the  room — it  was'nt  far  to  look — and  then  up  at  the 
window,  and  then  to  Mr.  Blenhatn.  '  Harry,'  says  he,  'this 
will  not  do;  this  dear' —  Rot  it!  what  makes  you  look  so  ! 
Well,  says  he,  '  this  dear  fellow  must  not  lie  here ;  he  must 
have  more  air — better  attendance — he  won't  live  here !' 
Mr.  Blenhara  looked  sad  :  tears — it's  fact  now — came  running 
down  his  cheeks — some  time  before  he  could  speak.  At  last 
he  says,  '  James,  where  can  we  take  him  to,  my  house  is  too 
far  off?'  '  Mine  is  not,'  says  Mr.  Vernon  ;  'plenty  of  room. 
We  will  have  him  there  at  once,  and  then  we  all  will  tend 
him.' 

"  That  did  for  me  ;  I  had  to  give  in,  so  I  walked  off  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  stars.  I  could  have  taken 
that  nian  and  squeezed  him  to  my  heart.  Well — send  off  for 
the  doctor — doctor  thinks  he  can  be  moved  after  ten  o'clock 
next  morning,  in  a  sedan  from  the  hospital.  All  fixed  : 
Blenham  wouldn't  stir  to  go  home,  and  I  wouldn't  stir. 
Thinks  I,  I'll  be  up  to  you  ;  if  you  can  sit  up  here,  I  can — 
can't  sleep  if  I  go  home.  So  we  both  set-to  and  did  what  we 
could.  Ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  thing  was  there, 
all  curtained  and  fixed,  and  two  men  to  carry  it.  Doctor 
there — >all  going  to  take  hold  and  get  you  down  stairs ; 
let  alone,  says  I ;  let  me  have  him.  You  was  all  wrapped  up 
like  a  mummy;  so  I  just  took  you  up  in  my  arms — stop 
your  blubbering — and  carried  you  down,  and  laid  you  all 
snug  in  the  cot ;  and  then  off  they  went — Vernon  on  one 
side  of  you  and  Blenham  on  the  other  ;  never  felt  so  bad  in 
ray  life — it  looked  awful.  Thinks  I,  it's  a  pokerish  thing  to 
be  a  live  man,  any  how,  so  many  things  in  the  world  to 
screw  one's  heart  up — and  that's  the  end  of  it.  You've  had 
a  tight  scratch,  but  you're  through  now — soon  be  a  whole 
man  again." 

Henry's  recovery  was  rapid ;  but  before  he  was  able  to 
attend  to  business  Mr.  Blenham  had  him  removed  to  his  own 
house.  He  had  plans  in  view  for  him,  and  arrangements  to 
make  in  reference  to  them,  which  could  be  better  attended  to 
there. 

Mr.  Vernon  had  exercised  great  prudence  in  the  business 
which  concerned  his  friends  the  Marstons. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         283 

He  had  never  encouraged  their  hopes  in  reference  to  the 
individual  about  whom  they  had  been  so  anxious  to  get  in 
formation.  He  had  not  imparted  his  own  views  to  them, 
but  had  adroitly  passed  over  the  matter  by  unfolding  difficul 
ties  that  appeared  insurmountable,  and  advising  them  to 
endeavor  to  let  the  subject  drop  from  their  mind,  and  to 
submit  to  the  calamity  as  one  of  the  inscrutable  acts  of 
Divine  Providence. 

But  the  time  had  at  length  arrived  when  he  felt  that 
reserve  on  his  part  was  no  longer  necessary. 

He  had  collected  a  chain  of  facts  that  left  him  no  room  for 
doubt.  These,  with  all  the  evidence  necessary  to  substantiate 
them,  he  had  submitted  to  two  of  the  most  experienced  and 
distinguished  lawyers  in  the  city,  and  they  had  pronounced 
them  without  a  flaw — of  themselves  all  sufficient  if  large 
estates  had  depended  upon  their  evidence. 

To  his  own  mind,  however,  there  was  an  additional  proof 
in  the  perfect  family  resemblance,  not  so  much  to  the  other 
children  of  his  friends  as  to  the  mother  and  her  family.  He 
had  known  them  from  their  youth,  and  was  very  confident  it 
would  be  felt  very  sensibly  by  those  peculiarly  interested. 

His  great  work  was  now  to  prepare  all  parties  for  the 
scene  which  awaited  them,  and  no  time  must  be  lost,  as 
Louise  had  been  sent  for  by  her  guardian.  He  and  his  lady 
were  about  to  make  an  extensive  tour  through  the  western 
States  and  into  Canada,  with  a  view  to  a  settlement  either  in 
the  latter  place  or  in  our  own  far  West ;  and  he  wished 
Louise  to  return,  that  she  might  be  a  companion  for  her 
cousin,  their  elder  daughter,  who  was  to  accompany  them ; 
and  Louise  was  highly  pleased  with  the  proposition. 

She  indeed  enjoyed  many  privileges  and  comforts  at  the 
house  of  Mr.  Vernon,  but  there  was  nothing  peculiarly 
attractive  to  her  except  the  society  of  Mr.  Vernon.  She  had 
no  companions  of  her  own  age,  for  the  reason  that  she 
avoided  making  acquaintance  with  them.  The  only  tie 
which  really  bound  her  to  life  with  any  interest  was  her 
regard  for  Henry ;  and  under  her  circumstances,  it  was  a 
blessed  thing  for  her  young  heart  that  its  affections  had  one 
object,  at  least,  to  call  them  into  exercise ;  and  to  him  she 
let  them  go  forth  in  all  their  ardor,  with  only  such  limitation 
as  might  bind  a  sister  and  brother.  It  pained  her,  indeed, 


284:  TRUE  TO   THE   LABT  ;   OR, 

that  she  could  not  confine  Henry's  feelings  as  she  could  her 
own ;  and  their  parting  scene,  as  already  recorded,  had  left 
upon  her  rnind  a  serious  impression.  She  began  to  fear  that 
she  was  indulging  fanciful  ideas  which  could  not  be  carried 
out  in  real  life,  and  encouraging  in  him  a  passion  which 
would  only  result  in  disappointment  and  unhappiness,  and 
she  had  finally  come  to  the  conclusion  that,  painful  as  it 
might  be  to  him  or  to  her,  she  would  change  her  course  ;  she 
would  not  by  any  act  of  hers  raise  in  his  mind  expectations 
which  she  resolved  never  to  meet. 

She  had  no  anxiety  any  longer  for  his  welfare ;  he  had 
made  powerful  friends,  and  his  prospects  for  life  were  as 
bright  as  she  could  wish. 

She  had  also  learned  through  Mr.  Vernon  that  Henry  was 
about  to  leave  the  city.  Mr.  Blenham  was  soon  to  sail  for 
China,  and  had  determined  to  take  Henry  with  him,  pre 
paratory  to  his  permanent  establishment  there.  It  would  be 
a  great  chance  for  Henry,  and  he  would  no  doubt,  she 
thought,  gladly  accept  of  it.  "  What  would  there  be  then  to 
keep  her  in  the  city,  or  anywhere  that  she  had  ever  lived  ? 
and  in  the  West  she  might  hope  to  be  free  from  many 
annoyances  she  was  exposed  to  in  more  thickly  settled 
places."  For  Mr.  Vernon,  indeed,  she  had  a  high  regard ; 
she  could  confide  in  him  without  hesitation — and  to  part 
with  such  a  friend  as  he  had  been  would  be  a  severe  trial  to 
her  heart.  "But  Mr.  Vernon  had  made  no  objections  to 
her  departure,  and  seemed  not  at  all  affected  by  her  readiness 
to  comply  with  the  request  of  her  guardian." 

Mr.  Vernon,  however,  had  prepared  matters  for  a  new  era 
in  the  life  of  Louise,  of  which  she  had  then  no  idea,  and 
which  would  bring  new  joys  and  sorrows  to  her  heart  and 
the  hearts  of  those  to  whom  she  was  dear. 

When  Henry  was  taking  his  leave  of  this  kind  family  in 
order  to  return  to  his  home  at  Mr.  Blenham's,  he  had  been 
informed  by  Louise  that  she,  too,  would  in  a  few  days  leave 
Mr.  Vernon's  to  return  to  Stratton ;  and  as  they  were  about 
to  separate,  it  would  have  been  gratifying  to  him  could  they 
have  said  good  bye  to  each  other  in  private,  for  years  must 
intervene  before  they  should  meet  again,  if  ever. 

Louise,  however,  studiously  avoided  any  such  opportunity; 
and,  unfortunately  for  them  both,  Henry  had  learned  some 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,    VflDE   SEA.  285 

things  from  Mrs.  Barton,  who  had  called  to  see  him,  which 
threw  a  new  aspect  on  the  circumstances  of  Louise.  "  Every 
thing  was  secret  yet" — bat  Mrs.  Barton  had  learned  from 
Caroline  Jeralman  "  that  this  Miss  Lovelace  was  about  being 
restored  to  her  parents,  and  that  they  were  very  great  folks. 
He  must  not  say  a  word  about  it,  but  it  would  soon  come  out." 

Henry  had  said  nothing  about  it ;  but  the  tidings  had 
their  effect  upon  his  heart  and  his  conduct. 

He  carefully  avoided  any  approach  to  familiarity.  He 
thanked  her  for  all  her  kindness  to  him,  but  in  such  a  formal 
way  that  Louise  was  taken  by  surprise.  She  had,  indeed, 
resolved  to  prevent  any  expression  of  interest  that  might  be 
construed  by  Henry  into  a  meaning  foreign  to  her  interest, 
but  she  was  not  prepared  for  his  coldness  of  manner ;  she 
could  not  comprehend  its  cause  ;  it  threw  a  damp  upon  her 
warm  feelings ;  it  touched  and  saddened  her  heart,  and  she 
parted  from  the  only  being  in  this  world  to  whom  she  felt 
any  strong  tie  with  a  simple  good  bye,  and  then  went  into 
her  room  and  wept  bitterly. 

It  may  be  as  well  now  that  they  are  separated,  to  say  a 
word  in  reference  to  this  affection  between  two  persons  of 
their  age.  That  the  seeming  strength  of  their  interest  for 
each  other  was  much  greater  than  is  commonly  supposed  to 
exist  at  that  fanciful  period  of  life,  we  allow ;  and  that,  espe 
cially  on  the  part  of  Louise,  there  was  quite  a  mixture  of 
romance  with  what  was  real  in  her  affection,  yet  we  hope 
our  readers  will  not  cavil  at  the  narration  of  their  young 
loves,  because  in  general  such  exhibitions  in  the  earlier 
period  of  life  are  so  evanescent.  We  shall  venture  our  repu 
tation  for  delineating  truthful  scenes,  and  send  it  forth  to  the 
world  as  a  genuine  exhibition  of  that  holy  flame,  fully  believ 
ing  that  it  will  find  witnesses  for  its  truth  in  many  a  sympa 
thizing  heart. 

And  for  the  parties  themselves  it  had  not  hitherto  been  a 
vain  thing ;  their  relation  to  each  other  under  their  peculiar 
circumstances  had,  on  the  contrary,  been  a  source  of  good  to 
them  both. 

In  Louise  it  had  cherished  and  kept  alive  those  tender  emo 
tions  which  might  otherwise  have  had  no  play.  She  had 
been  made  the  confidant  of  Henry,  and  her  sympathy  for  him 
tended  to  divert  her  mind  from  her  own  peculiar  trials.  She 


286  TKTTE   TO  THE   LAST. 

believed  him ;  she  knew  him  to  be  of  a  pure  mind — without 
guile  ;  generous  and  manly  in  his  feelings.  To  her  his  image 
was  very  fair  and  lovely ;  and  it  is  good  for  the  young  heart 
to  let  its  emotions  be  called  forth  by  that  which  is  "  lovely 
and  of  good  report."  Without  this  charm  her  heart  might 
have  been  enclosed  within  a  wall  of  self.  ^ 

To  Henry  it  had  been  a  healthful  stimulus  by  which  his 
tender  spirit,  harassed  and  oppressed  by  peculiar  trials  had 
retained  its  elasticity. 

The  thought  of  Louise,  that  gentle  pleasant  friend,  who 
talked  to  him  so  fondly  and  seemed  to  feel  so  easy  in  his  com 
pany,  and  would  select  him  for  her  companion  in  her  rambles ; 
nor  ever  shrank  from  him  when  at  any  time  his  hand  might 
be  extended  for  her  aid  across  the  little  brook  or  the  stone 
fence,  or  up  the  steep  hill-side,  and  whose  voice  seemed  always 
so  soft  and  musical  when  she  spoke  to  him,  was  not  to  him 
a  vain  thought. 

And  when  at  their  first  parting,  words  had  been  spoken  by 
her  that  revealed  more  than  he  had  dared  to  hope  for,  he 
treasured  them  up,  and  their  memory  caused  light  to  be  at  all 
times  gleaming  on  some  part  of  his  horizon.  "  He  was  loved 
by  one ;  one  beautiful  and  true  might  be  thinking  of  him — had 
confidence  in  him  ;  his  success  would  give  her  pleasure — and 
perhaps  (for  strange  things  happened  sometimes)  he  might 
one  day  meet  her  when  he  should  have  made  a  station  for 
himself  in  life.  No  longer  a  poor  boy  but  independent  by 
his  own  exertions ;  on  an  equality  with  her,  and  perhaps  she 
might  be  won !"  And  these  bright  fancies  quickened  his  young 
heart  and  buoyed  him  up  through  many  a  dark  passage  and 
trying  hour. 

It  was  well  for  them  that  they  had  loved  ;  and  if  their  paths, 
diverging  now,  never  shall  meet  again,  the  pure  feelings  which 
have  had  their  play  will  have  accomplished  a  mighty  good. 
We  separate  them  with  no  feelings  of  pleasure,  and  would  fain 
make  a  smoother  way  for  their  young  hearts,  but  all  things 
cannot  be  as  we  would  wish.  The  bud  that  never  opens  to 
full  beauty  and  fragrance  is  not  a  useless  effort  of  nature  if  it 
has  awakened  hope.  The  babe  that  smiles  upon  its  mother's 
breast  and  then  bids  adieu  to  earth  has  not  lived  in  vain,  for 
a  mother's  love  has  been  kindled,  and  that  holy  fire  will  never 
utterly  go  out. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MY   DEAR    FRIEND    MARSTON  ! 

I  have  just  heard  of  your  arrival  by  the  way  of  Bos 
ton,  and  should  have  called  upon  you  during  a  short  trip  I 
have  lately  made  to  the  country,  but  urgent  business  took 
me  out  of  the  direct  path,  and  I  was  too  much  occupied  to 
allow  of  a  cross  cut  to  your  place. 

The  business  which  you  will  remember  having  urged  upon 
me  in  reference  to  inquiries  as  to  a  certain  person,  has  not 
been,  as  you  may  well  believe,  neglected  by  me. 

I  dared  not  encourage  your  hopes,  because  I  saw  difficul 
ties  in  the  way  which,  if  not  removed,  might  throw  an  impene 
trable  cloud  over  the  great  secret;  and  you  know,  in  such  a 
case  as  this,  a  shadow  of  doubt  would  be  almost  worse  than 
perfect  ignorance  of  any  circumstances  that  could  give  ground 
for  hope. 

I  acknowledge  to  you  now,  however,  that  some  very  strange 
facts  are  connected  with  the  case  of  this  young  lady,  and 
although  I  caution  you  against  having  your  hopes  too  much 
excited  lest  you  might  suffer,  as  you  have  already,  from  disap 
pointed  expectations,  yet  I  feel  that  it  would  be  highly  proper 
that  you  should  know  how  far  the  research  points  to  this 
young  lady  as  your  lost  child. 

Try  to  keep  your  feelings  in  abeyance,  and  come  and  unite 
with  me  in  tracing  the  facts  and  comparing  circumstances, 
which  will  be  of  consequence  in  arriving  at  a  satisfactory  con 
clusion.  I  wish  that  both  yourself  and  Mrs.  Marston  would 
come  immediately  to  the  city,  and  let  me  know  the  moment 
you  arrive.  As  you  .will  probably  go  directly  to  your  sisters 
in  Cortlandt  street,  I  would  advise  you  by  no  means  to  say 
aught  to  her  or  any  of  her  family  upon  what  errand  you  have 
come.  Bring  with  you  all  the  records  you  have  of  dates,  etc.; 
and  again  I  caution  you,  indulge  no  hope,  but  as  duty  now 
plainly  demands  a  thorough  examination  of  this  matter,  let 
us  attend  to  it,  and  if  disappointed,  be  prepared  to  yield  hum 
bly  to  the  dispensation.  Your  sincere  friend, 

JAMES  VERNON. 

287 


288  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

No  sooner  had  Mr.  Vernon  dispatched  this  letter  than  he 
called  Louise  into  his  library. 

"  I  want,  dear  Louise,  to  have  a  little  talk  with  you  on  a 
subject  in  which  you  are  much  interested,  and  about  which  I 
have  said  nothing  for  some  time.  Come,  sit  down." 

Louise  was  somewhat  startled,  for  she  feared  he  was  about 
to  make  some  reference  to  Henry  Thornton  ;  but  her  fears  on 
that  point  were  soon  relieved. 

"You  will  remember  our  conversation  one  day,  nearly  a 
year  since,  at  the  hut  of  Caroline  Jeralman.  I  mean  in  refer- 
ence  to  yourself.  You  then  seemed  to  have  a  strong  suspi 
cion  that  Caroline  knew  more  about  you  than  she  was  willing 
to  reveal.  You  remember,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  And  you  know  that  very  soon  thereafter,  Caroline  left 
Stratton,  and  we  have  been  unable  to  trace  her  ?" 

"I  do,  sir;  and  I  shall  always  think  as  I  did  then, because 
what  she  said  that  led  me  to  the  suspicion,  was  said  at  dif 
ferent  times,  and  apparently  without  any  design  on  her  part ; 
it  seemed  to  be  forced  from  her." 

"  Exactly  so — I  have  reason  to  believe  that  your  suspicions 
are  correct." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon !  do  not  tell  me  so ! 

"  Be  calm,  Louise.  I  have  ascertained  for  a  certainty  that 
Caroline  does  know  all  about  you — be  patient,  my  child."  He 
saw  that  she  was  becoming  much  excited.  "  I  have  found 
Caroline,  and  have  learned  who  are  your  real  parents  /" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  do  tell  me  quick ;  who  are  they  ?  what 
are  they  ?  am  I — am  I " — 

"  Be  calm,  my  dear  Louise." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon  do  tell  me — tell  me — tell  me — what  am 
I !  who  are  they  ?" 

And  springing  from  her  chair  she  stood  before  him,  grasp 
ing  his  arm  with  almost  maniac  force,  and  looking  at  him  in 
such  a  wild  manner  that  he  at  once  became  alarmed. 

Wise  man  as  he  was  in  the  common  affairs  of  life,  he  had 
not  yet  sounded  the  depths  of  that  young  heart.  He  had  not 
calculated  upon  the  power  of  the  one  idea  which  had  occupied 
her  mind  so  long  with  such  intense  interest,  that  to  touch  it, 
to  wake  it  into  action  by  the  suggestion  "  that  after  all  it  was 
a  reality,"  was  like  probing  an  inflamed  wound  ;  every  nerve 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         289 

would  quiver  with  agony.  It  would  have  been  far  better  for 
her,  that  he  should  have  gone  straight  to  the  point  which  he 
was  now  designing  to  reach  by  a  circuitous  course. 

She  knew  from  his  manner  that  he  had  something  of  con 
sequence  to  communicate,  and  when  he  mentioned  the  name 
of  Caroline  in  connection  with  the  fact  that  he  had  ascertained 
her  parentage,  her  worst  suspicious  were  at  once  aroused. 

"  My  dear  Louise,  believe  me — I  have  nothing  to  tell  but 
what  you  will  be  glad  to  hear ;  just  quiet  yourself  now  upon 
that  assurance." 

"  I  will,  I  will,  sir !  but  oh,  are  you  sure,  Mr.  Vernon ! 
Nothing  but  what  I  will  be  glad  to  hear !  Why  not  tell  me 
at  once  ?!' 

"  It  is  a  long  story,  dear  Louise — you  are  very  sensitive. 
Be  calm  now ;  it  is  a  matter  of  serious  consequence.  What 
I  wish  is,  that  you  should  hear  from  Caroline  herself  the  whole 
story." 

"  Where  is  she,  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear  ;  but  sit  down,  Louise,  and  quiet  yourself. 
Believe  me  that  1  would  never  have  mentioned  this  subject  to 
you  if  I  had  not  reason  to  believe  that  your  doubts  and  fears 
will  be  removed.  Caroline  indeed  knows  all  about  you,  but 
she  has  been  a  mere  agent  for  others  in  separating  you  from 
your  real  parents." 

Louise  sat  down,  but  overcome  with  the  violence  of  her 
feelings  she  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears.  The  poor  girl  had 
suffered  what  no  human  being  of  those  who  saw  her  from  day 
to  day  had  even  imagined.  Her  spirit  was  proud.  She 
spurned  the  pity  of  those  about  her,  and  therefore  endeavored 
so  to  demean  herself  that  no  one  should  think  she  felt  the 
need  of  sympathy.  She  was  never  very  cheerful,  and  seemed 
rather  disposed  to  retire  within  herself;  but  when  brought  into 
contact  with  others  was  never  wanting  in  conversation  or  live 
liness  of  manner.  But  Louise  was  never  truly  happy.  The 
thought  of  her  situation  haunted  her  like  a  hideous  spectre — 
reason  could  not  drive  it  away.  In  fact,  the  very  citadel  of 
reason  was  itself  being  undermined,  and  this  outbreak  at  the 
intimation  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Vernon  that  he  knew  something 
positive  concerning  her,  was  but  a  token  what  power  the  trial 
was  gaining  over  her  young  and  sensitive  spirit.  It  was  a  re 
lief,  however,  to  be  assured  that  one  feature  of  her  calamity, 

13 


290  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OB, 

and  upon  which  she  had  dwelt  so  much,  was  not  true.  She 
had  feared  from  some  part  of  Caroline's  conduct  towards  her 
and  from  the  unaccountable  interest  which  she  had  taken  in 
her  affairs  that  she  might  possibly  claim  some  connection  with 
her.  This  relief  brought  the  outbreak  of  tears.  Mr.  Vernon 
was  rejoiced  to  find  that  things  were  taking  a  more  natural 
course.  It  gave  him  time  also  to  reflect  as  to  the  manner  in 
which  the  whole  truth  should  be  unfolded,  and  he  determined 
on  the  one  which  his  judgment  had  at  first  pointed  out. 

When  she  had  somewhat  recovered,  he  resumed  the 
subject. 

"  As  this  matter  is  to  you,  Louise,  one  of  immense  interest, 
and  in  some  respects  of  more  consequence  than  to  any  one 
else,  I  have  thought  it  highly  proper  that  you  should  receive 
the  testimony  of  all  the  living  witnesses  in  your  own  person. 
The  most  important  one  of  all  is  Caroline  herself  :  she  is  still 
living,  but  she  will  not,  in  all  probability,  survive  her  present 
illness.  She  is  now  able  to  give  a  clear  account  of  the 
matter.  She  is  in  the  city ;  will  you  go  with  me,  and  hear 
for  yourself  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Vernon  ;  I  will  go  at  once  if  you  wish 
it." 

"  Then,  that  matter  is  settled.  Now  go  and  get  ready ; 
say  nothing  about  your  business,  only  that  you  are  going  out 
with  me." 

It  took  Louise  but  a  few  minutes  to  prepare  herself,  and 
soon  she  and  Mr.  Vernon  were  on  their  way  to  the  residence 
of  Caroline. 

Mr.  Vernon  did  not  feel  quite  at  ease.  He  had  looked 
forward  in  imagination  to  such  a  point  in  Louise's  history  as 
probable,  and  had  anticipated  what  rich  pleasure  he  would 
enjoy  in  thus  being  able  to  unfold  to  the  dear  girl  the  great 
secret;  but  the  excitement  already  produced  had  alarmed 
him,  and,  as  she  now  leaned  upon  his  arm,  he  could  feel  that 
her  whole  frame  was  in  a  tremor. 

He  did  what  he  could  to  divert  her  mind  from  the  business 
in  hand,  by  calling  her  attention  to  persons  and  scenes 
around  them,  and  stopping  occasionally  to  look  at  the 
pictures,  which  in  general  Louise  was  very  ready  to  do.  She 
was  not,  however,  to  be  thus  dispossessed  ;  she  had  no  thought 
now  but  for  one  engrossing  object,  and  her  hurried  step  and 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         291 

hurried  manner  told  him  plainly  that  his  efforts  were  of  no 
use. 

"  It  is  rather  a  poor  place  that  Caroline  lives  in,  but  the 
people  seem  to  be  very  kind  to  her — here  it  is !" 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon  !     Please  stop,  sir — one  minute  !" 

And  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

'  You  are  weary,  my  dear !  I  have  walked  too  fast  for 
you !" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir — oh,  no,  sir ;  I  shall  be  better  directly. 
Perhaps  we  may  as  well  go  in  at  once;  I  feel  very  weak." 

They  ascended  the  steps,  and  in  a  few  moments  were  by 
the  bedside  of  Caroline.  Louise  recognized  her  at  once, 
although  she  was  much  emaciated.  Caroline  put  out  her 
hand,  and  Louise  took  it,  but  neither  spoke. 

"  I  have  brought  Miss  Lovelace,  as  I  told  you  I  should, 
Caroline.  Shall  I  go  out  of  the  room  while  you  converse 
with  her  ?" 

"  Her  name  is  not  Lovelace.  I  don't  know  as  her  parents 
had  christened  her,  or  fixed  upon  her  Christian  name,  but  her 
name  is  not  Lovelace — her  name  is  Marston.  No,  Mr.  Ver 
non,  you  needn't  go  out ;  I  have  but  one  story  to  tell ;  you 
have  heard  it.  But  she  ain't  well — oh,  dear !" 

Mr.  Vernon  looked  at  Louise.  She  was,  indeed,  deadly 
pale.  He  immediately  gave  her  a  seat,  and  administered 
some  simple  restorative. 

"  You  had  better,  Caroline,  both  for  the  sake  of  this  young 
lady  and  yourself,  go  on  at  once  with  your  narrative ;  and 
make  it  as  concise  as  you  can.  It  will  be  a  trial  of  strength 
for  you  both." 

"  It  will  make  but  little  difference  with  me,  Mr.  Vernon. 
My  weary  life  is  nearly  at  an  end;  nothing  can  hurt  me  now, 
and  if  my  sins  are  only  forgiven,  and  God  can  receive  such  a 
poor  creature  into  his  favor,  for  Christ's  sake,  it  will  be  better 
for  me  when  it  does  come  to  an  end  ;  only  I  want  to  see  this 
matter  all  put  right,  and  this  dear  young  creature,  who  has 
suffered  so  much — I  want  to  hear  her  say  she  forgives  me ; 
and  I  want  to  hear  her  parents  say  so  too — and  then  I  will 
die  in  peace.  Are  they  coming,  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  I  think  they  will  be  here  shortly — in  a  day  or  two !" 

Louise  clasped  her  hands.  She  covered  her  face  with 
them  a  moment,  and  then  arose,  and,  with  a  quick  step, 


292  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

walked  to  the  window.  Mr.  Vernon  went  up  to  her,  put  his 
arm  kindly  around  her. 

"  Remember,  dear  Louise,  you  are  near  the  end  of  all  this 
trial,  under  which  you  have  so  long  suffered.  Try  to  think 
of  the  great  mercy  which  has  been  so  long  vouchsafed  to 
you." 

Alas !  poor  Louise  was  in  no  state  of  mind  to  appreciate 
that  idea.  Her  trial  had  the  effect  to  cloud  the  great 
subject  of  religion.  She  could  see  no  beauty  in  it ;  and 
before  the  face  of  her  Heavenly  Father,  as  well  as  upon  all 
his  works  and  his  dealings,  a  dark  veil  was  spread — night  and 
darkness  rested  there !  She  made  no  reply  to  Mr.  Vernon, 
but  suffered  him  to  lead  her  back  to  the  seat  she  had  left. 

"  I  see,"  said  Caroline  ;  "  I  see  how  it  is.  I  know  she  has 
suffered,  poor  dear  thing !  But  it  won't  be  long  now  ;  and  I 
will  tell  her  the  whole  of  it. 

"  I  was  brought  up  with  Miss  Tyrrel,  at  the  Tyrrel  place, 
from  a  little  child.  My  father  was  a  laborer  there — a  gar 
dener  first,  and  afterwards  a  kind  of  overseer  over  the  men ; 
he  was  a  very  stern  man.  My  mother  died  when  I  was  six 
years  old,  and  then  he  put  me  in  the  house  with  Miss  Tyrrel. 
She  was  a  very  stern  woman,  too,  and  all  about  her  had  to  do 
just  as  she  said.  I  was  brought  up  in  mortal  fear  of  her  and 
of  my  father;  what  they  said  I  had  to  do  whether  or  no. 
When  I  was  about  sixteen,  Miss  Lettie  Harbrook  came  to  live 
with  Miss  Tyrrel ;  and  Miss  Lettie,  or  the  young  mistress,  as 
we  called  her,  very  soon  took  all  the  rule  in  the  house ;  Miss 
Tyrrel  was  often  sick,  and  couldn't  see  to  things,  and  so  by 
degrees  she  gave  up  the  rule  to  the  young  mistress. 

"  My  father  somehow  took  to  the  young  mistress,  and  what 
she  wanted  to  be  done  must  be  done. 

"  About  two  years  after  Miss  Lettie  came  to  live  with  us, 
my  father  called  me  one  day  to  him,  and  said  '  he  wanted 
my  help  in  a  business  that  was  to  be  done  for  the  young 
mistress ;  that  it  was  to  be  a  piece  of  fun ;  but  she  had  set 
her  heart  on  it.'  And,  says  he, '  You  know  all  about  the 
house  of  Captain  Marston  ?'  '  I  do,'  says  I.  '  You  know 
where  the  nursery  is?'  'I  do,'  says  I;  '  it  is  on  the  ground 
floor  in  the  north  wing.'  '  Can  you  get  in  there,'  says  he, 
'  from  the  outside  ?'  '  I  can,'  says  I,  '  for  a  door  opens  from 
it  on  to  the  piazza.'  '  Well,  Jane,'  says  he  (he  spoke 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         293 

kindly,  as  I  had  never  heard  him  before)  '  I  want  your  help 
about  the  thing ;  it  will  be  a  good  round  sum  in  my  pocket, 
all  of  eight  hundred  dollars ;  and  you  are  to  have  two  hun 
dred  besides — only  think  of  that !'  says  he.  Money,  indeed, 
was  a  great  thing  with  us :  we  had  always  been  kept  dread 
fully  scant;  and  then  I  was  just  thinking  about  getting  mar 
ried  ;  I  could,  I  knew,  if  I  would  say  the  word ;  and  two  hundred 
dollars  made  me  fairly  jump  when  he  said  the  word.  '  But,' 
says  I,  '  what  is  to  be  done,  father  ?'  '  Why,'  says  he,  '  the 
young  mistress  is  bent  upon  getting  their  baby.  You  know,' 
says  he,  'she  has  a  great  hatred  to  the  captain;  and  she 
says  they  have  both  brought  disgrace  upon  her.  All  she 
wants  is  to  get  the  baby,  and  it  is  not  to  have  a  hair  of  its 
head  hurt ;  but  Miss  Lettie  has  got  a  person  who  will  take  it 
and  take  good  care  of  it  for  a  few  months,  and  then,  when 
she  has  punished  them  enough,  it  is  to  be  taken  back  slily, 
and  left  at  the  house  again.  Now  Jane,'  says  he,  'if  you  will 
help  about  this,  it  will  be  the  making  of  us.' 

"  I  didn't  take  much  time  to  think,  for  I  knew  if  I  said  no 
my  father  would  be  dreadfully  angry,  and  Miss  Lettie,  too, 
and  I  did'nt  want  things  to  be  any  worse  than  they  had 
been  ;  and  it  aint  worth  while  to  go  over  with  it  all.  I 
agreed  to  it :  so  off  we  went  in  a  horse  and  gig,  just  towards 
evening,  and  we  got  there  after  it  was  dark,  and  the  house 
was  lighted.  My  father  staid  in  the  gig,  and  I  went  across 
lots,  for  he  didn't  stop  in  the  main  road,  but  in  a  by-lane 
that  ran  north  of  the  house.  But — oh,  dear  !" 

"  Caroline,  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  with  the  particu 
lars  ;  it  exhausts  you  !"  Mr.  Vernon  saw  that  the  scene  was 
too  trying  for  her.  weak  condition,  as  she  endeavored  to  go 
through  it  again. 

"  Well,  I  will  be  short  as  I  can.  I  watched  my  chance  ;  I 
see  the  nurse  put  you  in  the  cradle,  and  after  a  little  she 
left  the  room  ;  I  didn't  stop  a  minute  ;  I  went  in ;  I  catched 
you  up,  and  off  again  across  lots,  and  my  father  drove  as 
hard  as  he  could  through  by-roads,  some  through  the  woods. 
You  wasn't  took  to  the  Tyrrel  house ;  we  went  to  the  lodge ; 
and  then  1  had  to  go  with  him  to  Miss  Lettie,  and  before  she 
would  give  the  money,  she  made  us  both  swear  on  the  Bible 
— oh,  what  dreadful  oaths !  Three  times  did  I  have  to  kiss 
the  Bible,  in  three  different  places.  And  that  oath  I  have 


294:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST}   OR, 

kept,  and  would  have  kept  till  I  died  if  I  had  not  heard  that 
Miss  Lettie  was  dead.  I  took  the  money,  but  my  heart 
began  to  misgive  me.  We  got  back  to  the  lodge ;  and  then 
I  begged  my  father  to  let  me  have  the  baby.  You  see,  I 
feared  the  woman  who  was  to  have  it ;  and  I  feared  they 
wouldn't  be  as  good  as  their  word,  and  put  you  back  again. 
I  had  felt  your  dear  warm  breath,  as  you  was  sleeping  on  my 
bosom,  and  I  couldn't  give  you  up,  and  not  know  what 
might  happen  to  you.  I  told  my  father  that  he  might  have 
the  money,  only  let  me  take  the  baby ;  and  he  consented 
that  night  that  I  should  take  it  in  the  morning.  But  I 
feared  them  all :  so  in  the  night,  when  he  was  asleep,  I 
wrapped  you  up,  took  ten  dollars  of  the  money,  and  stole 
away  from  the  lodge.  I  knew  I  could  make  my  own  living, 
but  I  never  thought  until  I  got  to  the  city  that  I  could  not 
do  anything  with  a  child  in  my  arms  to  be  tended ;  and  so 
I  was  most  distracted.  It  was  night  when  I  got  to  the  city, 
and  I  sat  on  a  stoop  in  a  back  yard,  and  watched  my  chance 
to  slip  you  into  the  area  of  a  house  that  looked  nice  and 
clean — and  the  rest  you  know.  But  no  one  knows  what  I 
have  suffered ;  but  I  have  never  lost  sight  of  you  to  this  day, 
except  the  little  time  you  have  been  with  Mr.  Vernon.  And 
now  I  have  told  you  all  that's  needful ;  Mr.  Vernon  knows  it, 
and  a  great  deal  more.  But,  oh,  I  want  to  hear  you  say  that 
you  forgive  me !" 

Louise  was  deeply  agitated,  but  she  arose  and  took  the 
hand  of  Caroline. 

"  I  not  only  forgive  you,  Caroline" 

"Don't  call  me  Caroline  any  more:  that  is  not  my  true 
name.  I  am  soon  to  be  in  the  presence  of  my  Creator :  I 
want  to  set  all  right:  let  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth,  be  spoken  by  me  and  of  me.  My  name  is  Jane — Jane 
By  field." 

'•  I  heartily  forgive  you  ;  and  I  most  heartily  thank  you  for 
all  the  care  you  have  taken  of  me.  Sometimes  I  have  spoken 
harshly,  because  I  thought  you  kept  a  watch  upon  me,  and 
interfered  with  matters  that  did  not  concern  you.  You  must 
forgive  me,  too." 

Jane  took  the  hand  of  Louise  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
and  then  laid  it  over  her  heart. 

"  You  have  been  there — there  from  the  hour  I  felt  your 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        295 

dear  breath  as  you  slept  in  my  arms.  For  you  I  have 
watched,  and  in  ray  own  poor  way  have  prayed ;  and  for  you 
I  have  been  an  outcast,  living  alone  or  among  strangers ;  but 
where  you  was,  there  I  must  be.  Oh,  thank  God,  the  hour 
has  come!  that  good  man  has  worked  it  all  out.  He  knows 
more  than  I  can  now  tell !" 

"  And  now,  Caroline,  hereafter  I  shall  take  care  of  you : 
where  I  am  you  shall  live,  if  your  life  is  spared ;  and  while 
you  are  sick,  I  will  stay  by  you  and  do  for  you  what  you 
would  have  done  for  me." 

"  Oh,  no,  child  1  I  have  good  care  ;  the  people  are  kind  ;  I 
am  better  taken  care  of  than  I  deserve  ;  and  you  ain't  well ; 
you  don't  look  natural ;  your  cheeks  used  to  be  red  like  the 
rose,  and  your  lips  too.  My  time  is  short,  but  your  young 
life  is  precious — very  precious  it  will  be  to  some :  I  have 
wronged  them  enough  already ;  but  you  will  tell  them  all  the 
truth,  and  ask  them  to  forgive  me." 

Louise  could  not  answer,  but  she  pressed  the  hand  of 
Caroline. 

"  I  shall  tell  them,  Caroline,"  said  Mr.  Vernon ;  "  you 
must  let  me  call  you  Caroline  still — I  shall  tell  them,  for  I 
have  other  testimony  that  you  have  been  more  sinned  against 
than  sinning ;  you  were  an  unwilling  instrument  in  doing  a 
great  wrong,  but  you  have  shown  that  you  have"  a  true  heart. 
Do  not  fear,  you  will  be  set  right;  you  will  be  thanked 
rather  than  blamed,  and  you  will  never  be  allowed  to  want ; 
those  whose  interests  you  have  guarded  so  carefully  will  see 
to  it,  that  your  future  life — be  it  long  or  short — shall  be  as 
happy  as  they  can  make  it.  And  now,  we  must  leave  you  : 
I  shall  see  you  soon  again." 

Mr.  Vernon  had  to  use  more  decision  than  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  use  in  dealing  with  Louise,  in  order  to  over 
come  her  reluctance  to  leave  the  sick  room.  He  saw,  as 
Caroline  had  said,  that  Louise  was  not  herself ;  her  eyes  had 
not  their  natural  appearance,  and  the  color  had  left  her 
cheeks.  She  must  have  rest,  and  as  much  as  possible  be 
relieved  from  anything  that  had  a  tendency  to  excitement; 
and  the  bedside  of  Caroline  was  no  place  for  her.  She 
yielded,  but  not  with  her  usual  grace ;  and  their  walk  home 
was  performed  in  silence  on  the  part  of  Louise. 

After  reaching  the  house  she  complained  of  feeling  very 


296  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OB, 

tired,  and  that  her  head  was  dizzy ;  and,  at  times,  that  sharp 
pains  would  shoot  through  it.  The  ladies  persuaded  her  to 
lie  down,  and  some  gentle  anodyne  was  administered.  But 
as  the  day  closed  and  the  night  came  on,  more  decided  symp 
toms  were  manifest — and  the  physician  was  called. 

The  next  morning  brought  no  relief.  Like  a  strong  man 
armed,  disease  had  fastened  upon  her  frame,  and  from  side  to 
side  she  tossed,  restless  and  unhappy ;  and  although  she 
seemed  to  retain  her  consciousness,  questions  which  she  asked 
at  times  showed  that  her  mind  was  losing  its  balance  ;  and, 
as  these  symptoms  increased,  she  was  more  disposed  to  con 
verse,  and  her  ideas  seemed  to  be  wonderfully  enlarged,  and 
on  subjects  about  which  it  might  have  been  thought  she 
knew  but  little,  she  would  express  clear  views,  and  in  most 
appropriate  -language.  Sometimes  her  expressions  would 
cause  those  about  her  to  wonder  greatly,  they  were  so  bright 
and  beautiful.  And  then,  again,  her  sentences  would  be 
broken — incoherent,  and  she  would  labor  to  catch  the  idea 
that  had  glanced  through  her  mind,  but  would  not  be 
recalled  :  and  this  latter  symptom  became  more  and  more 
prominent,  until  strange  faces  seemed  to  be  about  her,  and 
unpleasant  visions  startled  her,  and  the  familiar  friends  who 
tried  to  soothe  her  became  unknown,  and  the  room  where  she 
had  slept  so  long  had  an  unpleasant  aspect,  and  she  asked  at 
times,  with  great  earnestness,  "  If  she  might  not  go  now !  she 
had  been  there  long  enough  !  she  must  go  home !" 

But  we  must  leave  Louise,  that  we  may  accompany  the 
letter  which  had  been  sent  to  Captain  Marston.  It  did  not 
reach  him  until  the  evening  of  the  second  day  after  it  was 
mailed.  Railroads  were  then  unknown. 

Captain  Marston  had  been  home  but  a  short  time,  and  had 
been  busily  occupied  in  regulating  the  affairs  of  his  farm,  in 
the  expectation  of  making  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  New  York, 
so  soon  as  he  had  completed  some  improvements  which  he 
had  much  at  heart.  It  was  towards  evening,  when,  on  com 
ing  in,  his  lovely  wife,  with  a  smiling  countenance,  handed 
him  a  letter. 

"  It  must  be  from  your  friend  Vernon.  I  am  sure  it  is  in 
his  hand." 

At  once  he  sat  down   and  broke  the  seal ;    while  Mrs.  ^ 
Marston,  always  on  the  watch  whenever  a  letter  came  from 


AJ.ONE   OX    A    '.VIDE,    1VIPE    ST^A.  297 

that  source,  steadily  fixed  her  eye  on  her  husband's  counte 
nance,  to  see  if  she  could  read  there  any  new  revelation. 

He  went  steadily  through  it,  and  although  she  imagined 
there  was  a  little  restlessness  in  his  manner,  yet  the  calm  and 
rather  sober  expression  into  which  his  face  settled  as  he 
closed,  convinced  her  that  no  glad  tidings  were  in  the  letter, 
whatever  else  it  contained. 

"What  does  he  say,  ray  dear  ?" 

"  Oh,  well,  the  old  story  about '  dispensation  : '  he  always 
closes  with  that,  you  know.  But  he  wishes  us  to  come  down 
there  as  soon  as  possible.  Now,  dear  Carrie,  I  want  you  to 
be  as  self-possessed  as  you  can  :  but  there  is  some  strange 
news  in  this  letter — read  it." 

Mrs.  Marston  read  it  through,  and  then,  clasping  her 
hands  and  looking  at  her  husband  with  intense  interest — 

"  James  Vernon  knows  more,  my  dear  Frank,  than  he 
dares  to  tell  us  :  do  you  not  think  so  ?" 

"  I  do :  he  is  very  cautious ;  he  would  not  excite  a  hope 
that  might  possibly  be  disappointed  ;  but  he  would  not  call 
us  on  such  an  errand  if  he  had  not  good  reason  to  believe  it 
would  be  successful." 

''  If  it  should  be  so !  Oh  how  strange  that  it  should  have 
resulted  from  the  visit  of  that  young  man  !  Oh  what  a  reward 
that  would  be  for  your  kind  act  in  bringing  him  here  and 
keeping  him,  and  doing  so  well  for  him  !" 

u  Me !  What  did  I  do  !  It  was  mere  selfishness  on  my  part. 
I  felt  sorry  for  him ;  that  was  all — no  merit  in  that!" 

"  There  is  not  much  merit  in  anything  we  do,  but  '  whoso 
ever  giveth  a  cup  of  cold  water  to  one  of  these  little  ones  that 
believe  in  me  shall  in  no  case  lose  his  reward.'  That  boy, 
dear  Frank,  I  have  reason  to  believe  was  one  of  that  class." 

"  He  was  a  fine  fellow  at  any  rate,  and  I  should  very  much 
like  to  know  how  he  has  succeeded.  We  shall  learn  when 
we  go  to  the  city.  If  it  should  be  that  he  has  been  the  means 
of  our  recovering  the  lost  one  I  should  almost  feel  like  adopt 
ing  him  as  our  own.  But  it  will  hardly  do  for  us  to  think 
about  it.  If  it  should  be  so  !  If  that  dear  one  is  still  alive  ! 
If  we  can  once  more  clasp  her  in  our  arms  with  the  certainty 
that  she  is  our  own  dear  Carrie  !" 

Mrs.  Marston  could  not  reply.  She  was  leaning  on  her  hus 
band's  breast  and  pouring  out  the  fullness  of  her  heart.  The 

13* 


298  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

mere  mention  of  the  dear  name  had  awakened  all  the  mother? 
and  never  before  had  Mr.  Marston  allowed  himself  or  her  so 
to  indulge  a  hope.  She  felt  almost  sure  that  their  fond  ex 
pectations  were  about  to  be  realized.  But,  strange  freak  of 
the  human  heart !  How  often  it  is,  in  the  moment  when  the 
most  ardent  wish  is  at  the  point  of  being  realized  and  we  are 
about  to  quaff  the  cup  of  completed  bliss,  there  falls  upon  us 
a  shadow  from  some  unknown,  unseen  object.  The  spirits 
droop — the  breast  heaves  a  sigh  and  the  tear  is  ready  to  leave 
its  hiding  place.  Perhaps  from  some  such  cause  Mrs.  Marston 
was  then  suffering. 

"  What  makes  you  sigh,  dear  Carrie !" 

"  I  cannot  tell — but  there  seems  a  load  at  my  heart.  I  fear 
something  sad  is  about  to  take  place." 

"  So  you  always  feel  when  under  the  happiest  circumstances. 
You  seem  to  think  that  evil  must  be  about  to  overtake  you, 
because  you  are  so  happy  !" 

"  I  know  I  have  done  so,  but  that  is  wrong.  I  ought  to 
receive  my  mercies  with  a  more  grateful  heart,  and  believe 
that  they  are  bestowed  in  love,  and  not  as  preludes  to  some 
judgment.  But  that  is  not  the  case  with  me  now.  I  almost 
fear  that  this  discovery,  should  it  prove  as  we  anticipate,  may 
after  all  bring  with  it  to  our  hearts  some  deep,  deep  sorrow. 
Perhaps  we  need  it.  I  know  that  I  have  often  murmured — too 
often  indulged  hard  thoughts.  I  could  not  feel  that  it  was 
right — the  blow  was  so  severe,  so  sudden,  so  prolonged.  It 
may  be  I  shall  meet  a  lasting  sorrow  when  I  clasp  my  dear 
one  to  my  breast."  t 

Mr.  Marston  had  never  heard  his  wife  use  such  language. 
It  was  new  to  him,  and  under  present  circumstances  affected 
him  more  than  he  was  willing  to  acknowledge  or  to  manifest. 

''You  should  not  feel  so,  Carrie,  there  is  no  occasion  for  it. 
Our  hopes  may  after  all  be  disappointed  as  heretofore,  but  we 
must  go  forward  now;  as  Vernon  says,  we  must  get  ready  for 
the  morrow.  I  wish  to  take  an  early  start.  Break  the  mat 
ter  to  the  children  ;  be  prudent,  though,  not  to  raise  their  hopes 
too  highly,  and  enjoin  upon  them  the  most  perfect  silence." 

Mrs.  Marston  clasped  her  husband's  neck,  laid  her  head 
fondly  against  his  breast  and  received  his  warm  embrace,  and 
then  went  on  her  way  to  do  his  bidding. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  day  when  they  reached  the 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         299 

city,  and  in  a  few  hours  thereafter  were  seated  in  the  ample 
parlor  of  their  friends  the  Vernons. 

Very  soon  quite  a  number  of  persons,  strangers  to  them, 
with  the  exception  of  one  female  whom  they  remembered  as 
an  old  servant  at  the  Tyrrel  place,  one  by  one  entered  the 
room.  Three  lawyers  were  there — two  of  whom  had  been 
employed  by  Mr.  Vernon  in  the  city.  The  other  a  notary, 
who  had  taken  down  the  dying  words  of  Miss  Lettie. 

And  immediately  the  scene  commenced.  One  of  the  law 
yers  made  a  brief  statement  of  the  case  and  drew  out  in  all 
its  particulars  the  chain  of  proof  which  seemed  to  be  necessary 
to  establish  the  great  fact  for  the  purpose  of  which  they  were 
drawn  together.  And  turning  to  Mr.  Marston  and  his  lady 
as  he  closed,  said — 

'"  If  these  things  can  be  substantiated  by  fair  witnesses,  you 
will  feel  satisfied." 

"  Perfectly,  perfectly,"  replied  the  captain,  in  his  clear,  full 
voice. 

Mrs.  Marston  covered  her  face  and  gave  vent  to  the  deep 
emotions  of  her  heart. 

It  was  a  long  process ;  each  witness  had  quite  a  story  to 
tell,  and  was  allowed  to  tell  it  in  his  or  her  own  way,  while 
full  notes  were  taken  of  their  testimony  in  order  to  compare 
with  what  they  had  previously  narrated. 

The  declaration  of  Caroline  was  reserved  to  the  last,  and 
when  that  was  closed,  Captain  Marston  clasped  the  band  of 
his  dear  wife.  Not  a  word  was  said  by  either — their  feelings 
were  too  strong  for  utterance. 

When  the  task  had  been  gone  through  with,  Mr.  Marston 
whispered  to  his  friend  Vernon. 

"  I  must  see  to  it  that  these  people  are  handsomely  rewarded  ; 
handsomely !" 

"  I  will  see  to  that.  You  and  Caroline  had  better  step  into 
the  adjoining  room.'' 

And  opening  the  door,  Mr.  Vernon  stood  ready  to  usher 
them  in. 

"  Wait  here.     In  a  short  time  I  will  be  with  you." 

In  silence  they  walked  the  room  closely  linked  together. 
Never  in  their  past  experience  had  each  seemed  so  dear  to  the 
other.  One  strong  emotion  was  glowing  in  each  bosom — for 
each  alike  one  moment  of  ecstatic  bliss  was  in  prospect ;  yet 


300  TKUE   TO  THE   LAST  J   OK, 

the  sadness,  which  was  mingled  with  hope  in  the  breast  of  the 
wife  and  mother,  had  a  chastening  influence  on  them 
both. 

The  house  was  still.  They  wondered  at  its  silence.  No 
feet  of  servants  were  heard,  and  when  the  sound  of  one  passing 
through  the  hall  arrested  their  attention,  they  could  not  but 
notice  that  it  was  with  studied  care,  as  though  it  was  a  house 
of  mourning  and  the  dead  were  there. 

They  listened  to  the  departure  of  the  strangers  from  the 
adjoining  room,  and  they  too  went  out  with  noiseless  step,  and 
the  doors  opened  and  closed  as  if  the  slightest  noise  would 
have  been  unbecoming  to  the  place. 

Mrs.  Marston,  at  length  in  a  low  voice,  scarce  above  a  whis 
per,  for  the  strange  stillness  affected  her  too — she  felt  as  if 
it  would  have  been  wrong  to  speak  aloud — 

"  What  does  it  mean,  dear  Frank,  that  all  is  so  still  ?" 

"  God  only  knows,  Caroline.  But  I  fear  that  some  mem 
ber  of  Vernon's  family  is  very  low — or  dead !" 

At  length  the  door  opens,  and  their  kind  friend  enters,  and 
with  the  utmost  care  he  turns  the  latch.  He  is  pale — he 
looks  care-worn  and  sad — they  had  not  noticed  it  before ;  and 
as  he  approaches,  takes  a  hand  of  each.  They  see,  too,  that 
his  eye  is  moistened,  and  that  his  lip  trembles. 

"  Now,  come  be  seated." 

He  speaks  with  a  subdued  tone. 

"  God  is  on  the  throne.  He  rules1 — he  regulates  all  our 
destinies.  Come,  sit  down.  I  have  more  to  tell  you." 

They  obey  his  request,  and  he  draws  his  chair  before  them, 
and  then  again  he  takes  their  hands. 

"You  have  at  times,  when  suffering  under  this  great  sor 
row,  said  'that  could  you  only  know  the  dear  one  was  at  rest, 
at  rest  quietly  in  the  grave,  you  would  be  satisfied.' " 

Their  hands  dropped  as  though  all  energy  and  life  had 
gone,  and  hope  had  withered  from  their  hearts. 

"  Sometimes  our  great  Creator  takes  us  at  our  word.  Oh, 
he  is  good  and  just ;  he  is  wise.  He  knows  what  we  need. 
Try  to  say,  both  of  you,  from  your  hearts,  '  Thy  will,  O  Lord, 
be  done.'  You  have  gone  through  one  ordeal,  and  now  another 
is  before  you.  Your  child  is  found;  but  it  may  be  only' that 
you  may  witness  her  end  !" 

Like  two  subdued  children  they  sat.     The  strong  man  cover- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         301 

ing  his  face  and  with  his  tender  wife  giving  way  to  overpow 
ering  emotions. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  Where  is  she,  dear  James !  I  must  fly  to  her. 
Oh,  let  me  see  her — let  me  embrace  her.  Oh,  do,  do,  James !" 

"You  shall,  Caroline.  She  is  near — she  is  in  this  house. 
She  is  on  a  sick  bed.  She  has  not  her  reason.  But  be  still, 
I  entreat  of  you  both.  Thank  God  that  one  part  of  your  long 
desire  is  accomplished ;  and  beg  of  him  to  sustain  you  to  the 
end.  Her  life  may  yet  be  spared.  We  cannot  tell — physi 
cians  cannot  tell — but  you  and  she  and  all  of  us  are  in  the 
hands  of  Him  who  dealeth  wisely  and  with  great  mercy.  Now 
let  us  kneel  together  before  him ;  you  will  need  his  aid ;  let 
us  ask  it." 

Never  before  had  Captain  Marston  bowed  the  knee  to  man 
or  God.  For  an  instant  his  proud  spirit  struggled — but  he 
saw  his  lovely  wife  and  the  friend  of  his  youth  preparing  to 
bow  down — he  rose  and  knelt  beside  them — and  then  came 
the  floods  as  they  had  never  before  since  his  childhood's  hour 
been  poured  forth.  He  was  before  his  Maker.  He  was  there 
for  the  first  time,  acknowledging  his  sovereignty,  his  right  to 
do  with  him  and  his  as  He  pleased. 

As  they  arose,  Mrs.  Marston  took  the  hand  of  Mr.  Vernon. 

"  I  thank  you,  James.  Now  lead  us  to  her ;  let  us  see  her ; 
let  us  watch  over  and  relieve  our  burdened  hearts,  even  if  it 
be  in  smoothing  her  passage  to  the  grave.  Oh,  I  believe  we 
can  bear  anything  now  !" 

Mr.  Marston  spoke  not,  but  taking  his  wife's  arm,  followed 
their  mutual  friend  with  noiseless  step  up  to  the  chamber 
where  the  sick  one  lay. 

As  they  approached  the  bed,  the  attendants  made  way, 
and,  at  a  signal  from  Mr.  Vernon,  left  the  room. 

Louise  was  still  beautiful,  although  no  color  painted  her 
cheek.  Her  long  dark  hair  lay  in  dishevelled  curls  upon  the 
pillow  ;  her  dark  eyes  sparkled  with  unearthly  brightness ; 
her  fine  features  looked  like  chiselled  marble,  they  appeared 
so  very  white  in  contrast  with  her  hair  and  eyes. 

On  each  side  of  the  bed  one  parent  stood,  and  each  held  a 
soft  white  hand,  and  fixed  upon  the  darling  object  a  look  of 
most  intense  devotion. 

The  last  token  was  given  to  them,  if  they,  indeed,  needed 
any  other,  of  their  ownership  in  that  lovely  being.  The  re- 


302  TRUE    TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

semblance  was  complete,  she  was  the  mother's  counter 
part. 

A  moment,  the  eye  of  Louise  glanced  at  the  father,  and 
then,  with  a  steady  gaze,  rested  on  the  mother ;  a  smile  evi 
dently  played  upon  her  lips,  and  then  the  mother  imprinted 
sweet  kisses  on  those  lips  and  on  her  pale  cheeks,  and  laid 
her  head  beside  the  sick  one,  cheek  to  cheek :  and  all  the 
while.Louise  was  quiet. 

"  My  dear,  dear  child,  your  mother's  arm  is  round  you, 
and  your  dear  father  is  beside  you.  Do,  pa,  kiss  the 
darling !" 

And  the  tears  dropped  on  her  marble  face,  as  the  stricken 
father  pressed  his  lips  to  hers ;  and  still  the  eye  of  Louise 
sought  her  mother,  and  again  she  smiled,  but  only  for  one 
instant. 

"  You  will  tell  him,  won't  you,"  said  she,  "  that  I  have  not 
forgotten  what  we  have  talked  about?  Oh,  how  beautiful  to 
think  that  God  is  love !  God  is  gracious  :  he  is  high  and 
lifted  up.  Do  you  know — he  is  my  father.  Henry  has  told 
me  so,  often  !  My  father !  Is  not  that  sweet — to  have  a 
father  ?  Tell  him  I  have  got  it  yet,  and  I  look  at  it  every 
day.  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  Do  you  know  what  Mizpah 
means  ?  I  can  tell  you  :  if  you  want  to  be  happy,  you  must 
be  very  good — Henry  says  so  !" 

"  Louise !  dear  Louise !" 

There  was  a  slight  motion  of  the  muscles  of  the  face,  as 
though  her  mother's  voice  had  awakened  a  new  idea. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  ?  That  was  an  angel's  call.  Did  you 
hear  how  sweetly  it  sounded  ?  You  know,  the  angels  speak 
very  soft  and  sweet :  they  are  very  pretty,  too.  Did  you  ever 
see  them  ? — I  have." 

And  then  she  grasped  her  mother's  arm,  and  drew  her 
down,  and,  in  a  low  whispering  voice,  said — 

"  Come,  come,  let  us  go — you  and  I  together.  Let  us  go 
home — you  and  I  together.  Won't  that  be  nice  !" 

Mr.  Marston  looked  at  his  wife  and  motioned  to  her. 

"  Perhaps  we  only  disturb  her." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Mrs.  Marston  ;  and  at  the  same  time 
was  about  to  withdraw  her  hand  from  the  dear  girl,  but 
Louise  would  not  permit  her  to  do  so  ;  she  grasped  her 
mother's  aim  more  tightly. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         303 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet ;  the  time  has  not  come." 

An  interruption  now  took  place  from  the  entrance  of  phy 
sicians,  three  in  number. 

They  bad  decided  upon  some  more  active  measures,  and 
were  beginning  to  make  known  their  views  to  Mr.  Vernon, 
when  he  at  once  pointed  them  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston. 

"  There  are  her  parents,  doctors :  please  consult  with 
them." 

The  father  and  mother  were  then  called  on  one  side,  and, 
at  the  request  of  the  former,  an  exposition  of  the  nature  of 
the  disease  was  made  to  them,  of  its  progress  hitherto,  and  of 
its  probable  termination.  They  gave  but  little  encourage 
ment  for  hope ;  and  while  bidding  the  parents  to  make  up 
their  minds  for  the  worst,  added — 

"  We  think  it  expedient,  however,  to  try  the  means  we 
have  proposed  :  we  can  suggest  no  other  !" 

"  Then,  gentlemen,  we  must  leave  our  child  in  your  hands  : 
do  what  you  can." 

It  was  no  doubt  true,  as  Mrs.  Marston  often  had  said  when 
suffering  under  the  excruciating  thoughts  which  at  times 
almost  turned  aside  her  reason,  "That  it  would  be  better  to 
think  of  her  at  rest  in  the  grave,  than  as  subject  to  those  ter 
rible  calamities  which  meet  so  many  destitute  females." 

But  it  was  a  very  different  matter  now.  They  had  found 
their  lost  lamb ;  "  they  are  satisfied  that  she  is  theirs ;  and 
their  hearts  have  embraced  her,  and  she  is  nestled  there 
along  with  their  other  dear  objects  of  affection."  And  now 
another  claimant  has  come  who  seldom  fails  to  make  good 
his  demands ;  and  he  has  laid  his  hand  upon  her  and  made 
his  mark.  And  she  is  in  the  deep  waters  ;  no  parent's  hand 
can  grasp  her  from  that  dark  abyss. 

They  can  look  upon  their  lost  one,  her  whom  they  had 
imagined  oft  amid  scenes  of  wretchedness  and  want.  She 
has  been  cared  for;  she  has  been  carried  through  the  more 
easy  and  pleasant  paths  of  life ;  she  is  before  them  in  her 
spring  time  yet,  as  beautiful  a  flower  as  the  bud  gave  pro 
mise  of. 

They  can  only  stand  by  and  watch  the  wayward  pulse,  and 
bathe  the  parched  lips  and  the  beating  brow,  and  know  that 
she  recognizes  them  not,  and  in  silent  agony  mourn  that 
their  meeting  and  their  parting  are  so  near  together. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

IT  is  a  very  busy  time  with  Henry ;  early  and  late  he  is  at 
the  desk,  for  Mr.  Blenham  is  anxious  that  he  should  be 
instructed  in  the  principles  of  book-keeping,  and  Mr.  Belden 
has  him  in  charge,  and  with  right  good  will  is  letting  him 
into  the  secret  of  the  art. 

Mr.  Belden  is  to  be  no  longer  a  mere  fixture  at  the  desk : 
he  has  outdoor  work  to  attend  to ;  he  is  their  confidential 
agent,  intrusted  with  all  private  matters,  and  is  expected  to 
relieve  the  elder  partner  from  all  the  more  troublesome 
details  of  business.  And  Mr.  Belden  works  with  a  will ;  his 
face  has  assumed  a  more  cheerful  aspect ;  his  hair  no  longer 
stands  at  "sixes  and  sevens ;"  he  is  neatly  dressed,  and  alto 
gether  very  unlike  the  person  who  was  once  pinched  up  in  a 
narrow  coop  at  Messrs.  Sharp  &  Catchem's,  and  looked  so 
"  snappish  and  wild." 

He  has  to  watch  Henry,  however,  lest  he  should,  in  his 
eagerness  to  grasp  the  accomplishment  he  is  acquiring,  go 
beyond  his  strength,  and,  in  Mr.  Belden's  expressive  language, 
"  have  another  kick  up." 

It  was  getting  on  in  the  evening,  and  Mr.  Belden's  pen  was 
running  along  with  great  vivacity,  and  he  apparently  alto- 
together  absorbed  in  the  work  before  him,  when  all  at  once 
his  pen  was  placed  behind  his  ear.  He  jumped  from  his 
seat,  and  with  a  quick  step  came  to  the  other  side  of  the 
desk,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  took  the  pen  from  Henry's 
hand,  wiped  the  ink  from  it,  stuck  it  in  its  place,  and  throw 
ing  the  blotting  paper  over  the  sheet  just  written  upon,  closed 
the  book,  and  placed  that,  too,  in  its  proper  nook  over  the 
desk,  and  then  ran  back  to  his  work. 

"  But  I  have  not  finished  the  task  you  gave  me,  Mr. 
Belden." 

"  Can't  help  it." 

"  I  am  not  at  all  tired,  Mr.  Belden." 

"  Can't  help  it." 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

304 


TRUE   TO   THE   LAST.  305 

"Go  to  bed." 

a  I  am  not  sleepy." 

"  Can't  help  it." 

Seeing  that  there  was  no  redress,  Henry  quietly  left  the 
desk  and  took  a  chair. 

'•  We  shall  sail  in  less  than  a  week,  Mr.  Beldeu,  and  what 
shall  I  do  if  I  cannot  get  through  the  plan  you  have  given 
me?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do."  And  Mr.  Belden  came  and 
took  a  seat  beside  him.  "  Do  as  I  did  ;  use  your  own 
brains,  you've  got  enough  of  them,  and  more  than  you  can 
manage  well  sometimes.  You  know  all  about  the  matter  now, 
it's  as  simple  as  A  B  C  ;  you've  got  the  principles ;  you  know 
them  by  heart ;  carry  them  out,  that's  all  you've  got  to  do. 
You  know  what  that  means  ;  you  wasn't  told  expressly,  as  I 
take  it,  that  you  mustn't  do  such  and  such  things  which  you 
didn't  do  at  Sharp  &  Catchem's ;  but  you  know  that  such 
and  such  things  wouldn't  jibe  with  the  rules  of  the  bank ; 
and  you  wasn't  told  expressly  that  you  mustn't  do  such  and 
such  things  which  Mr.  Blenham  wanted  you  to  do,  and  you 
didn't  do ;  but  you  had  the  rules  by  heart,  and  you  just  let 
them  work ;  and  they've  worked  out  a  pretty  good  sum  for 
you. 

"  Some  fellows,  you  see,  I  couldn't  trust  to  go  on  with  the 
items,  even  if  they  did  know  the  rules ;  they'd  run  against 
stumps,  snags,  rocks,  and  come  to  a  dead  halt,  and  make  a 
smash  up.  No  thoughts  !  dumb  ! 

"  Strange  world,  ain't  it  ?     Grows  brighter,  don't  it  ?" 

"  Everything  is  very  pleasant." 

"  Great  changes,  though  ;  sudden,  unexpected ;  frightens 
me  sometimes.  Don't  know  what's  coming  next." 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Belden.  How  would  you  like  living 
here?" 

"  Am  I  not  living  here  ?  Only  stayed  before,  it  wasn't 
living,  at  Sharp's  !" 

"  No ;  but  what  I  mean  is,  how  would  you  like  to  live  in 
the  family  with  Mr.  Blenham,  when  we  are  gone  1" 

"  Like  it  much — no  babies  !" 

"  And  take  my  room,  and  have  no  board  to  pay,  and  your 
thousand  dollars  all  clear  ?  It  would  not  take  long  in  that 
way  to  clear  your  farm.1" 


306  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OE, 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  No  fun ;  don't  feel  like 
it." 

"  I  am  in  earnest,  Mr.  Belden.  You  will  be  invited,  I 
guess,  to-morrow,  to  make  your  home  here,  and  I  shall  be  so 
glad." 

"  You  will,  eh  ?  Well,  if  it  is  so,  I'll  give  up  ;  make  no 
more  calculations ;  let  them  drift  me  along  as  they  think  best, 
can't  help  it !  You  have  been  doing  this  :  had  a  finger  in 
the  pie,  I  know." 

"  Not  a  thing  have  I  done,  sir ;  but  Mr.  Blenham,  you 
know,  thinks  you  are  just  the  person  he  has  been  a  long 
while  wanting  to  get,  but  couldn't  find  him." 

"  And  this  is  just  the  place  I've  been  all  my  life  trying  to 
get,  and  couldn't  find  it.  How  I  ever  got  here,  I  don't 
know  ;  it  all  looks  pokerish  !" 

'•  No  matter  how  you've  got  here — honorably,  at  any  rate ; 
and  you  have  their  confidence ;  and  I  do  not  believe,  with 
out  you  should  wish  to  leave,  they  will  ever  part  with  you." 

"  I  shan't  leave  of  my  own  accord,  without  my  head  should 
get  into  a  kink  and  play  me  a  trick,  and  so  send  me  adrift. 
But  I  guess  it  won't !  No,  you  see,  they've  fixed  me.  Ever 
since  I  saw  that  man  dropping  the  tears  when  you  lay  jab 
bering  nonsense  on  your  bed  at  the  Barton's,  I've  been  fixed. 
Can't  leave  them  no  how ;  must  have  a  hard  kick  first,  but 
guess  no  danger  of  that.  But,  you  see,  I've  been  thinking 
about  the  farm :  a  few  years  more,  at  this  rate,  and  she's 
clear.  But  I  ain't  in  any  hurry  to  take  possession ;  get  her 
all  ready;  make  improvements  ;  lay  up  a  little  to  grease  the 
wheels,  so  as  to  make  it  all  go  smooth  and  easy,  and  then, 
may  be  in  a  few  years,  you  will  come  back,  fortune  made, 
want  to  retire,  go  up  with  me  and  build  on  your  old  place ; 
our  houses  in  sight,  run  across  every  day,  talk  about  old 
times,  lay  down  under  the  trees,  go  crabbing,  fishing,  sailing, 
riding ;  no  debts,  no  notes,  no  banks,  no  Sharp  &  Catchem's, 
no  babies !  free  as  the  birds,  do  what  we  like,  eat  when  we 
like,  sleep  when  we  like.  That's  the  way  I've  fixed  it.  But 
there !  a  knock  at  the  door.  Bad  news,  I  guess ;  there  can't 
be  any  more  good  news  that  I  can  think  of. 

The  two  last  sentences  Mr.  Belden  delivered  for  his  own 
special  benefit,  as  Henry  was  in  the  outer  room  on  the  way 
Lo  the  door. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         307 

"  I  suppose  you  will  be  surprised,  Henry,"  said  Evart 
Marston,  as  he  gave  his  hand  and  received  Henry's  warm 
embrace,  "  to  have  a  visit  from  me  at  this  time  of  the  even 
ing;  and  I  did  not  indeed  expect  to  find  you  in  the  office, 
but,  seeing  a  light  through  the  window,  thought  I  would 
come  in  and  see  Mr.  Belden  first,  he  seems  to  be  always 
here." 

"Yes,  he  is,  except  when  he  sleeps;  and  I  guess  he  will 
soon  sleep  here.  Come  in  ;  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you." 

Mr.  Belden  heard  the  voice  and  some  things  that  were 
said,  and  was  on  the  way  to  meet  the  visitor.  He  and  Evart 
had  met  so  often  around  Henry's  sick  bed  that  Mr.  Belden 
had  become  almost  as  fond  of  him  as  he  was  of  Hemy. 

"  I  came  to  see  you,  Mr.  Belden,  as  well  as  Henry,  this 
time,  and,  as  you  are  the  oldest,  I  will  do  my  errand  to  you 
first.  My  good  friend  Mr.  Vernon  has  told  me  that  you  are 
a  superior  accountant." 

"  I  wonder  who  told  him  that  ?" 

"  You  need  not  look  at  me,  Mr.  Belden.  I  should  have 
told  him  so,  no  doubt,  if  I  had" 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir  !  I  know  you  have ;  I  am  not 
superior  about  anything."  Looking  at  Evart :  "  I  know 
how  to  keep  books,  or  how  they  ought  to  be  kept,  and  that's 
all !" 

"  Well,  sir,  what  I  want  is  to  be  instructed,  so  as  to  have  a 
thorough  knowledge  of  it.  I  am  intending,  as  soon  as  possi 
ble,  to  take  my  own  business  into  my  own  hands,  and  I  wish, 
in  some  measure,  to  be  able  to  attend  to  it  intelligibly." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do :  just  come  and  take  Henry's 
place  here.  We  want  a  young  man;  Mr.  Blenham  has  told 
me  to  look  out  for  one." 

"  Oh,  do,  Evart ;  how  pleasant  that  would  be  ;  then  Mr. 
Belden  will  not  be  lonesome,  and  you  will  get  along  so  well 
together." 

"  I  have  never  thought  of  that  before,  but  I  should  like  it 
exceedingly,  if  Mr.  Blenharn  would  be  willing." 

"  Noiliing  to  do  with  it,  my  concern  altogether ;  small 
pay,  hard  work ;  sour,  cross,  ugly,  sometimes ;  can't  help  it, 
you  must  take  the  world  as  it  goes — criss-cross,  very  ;  but  you 
must  learn  to  fight  for  yourself,  kick  back  when  they  kick  at 
you." 


308  TKUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

"  1  do  not  care  for  any  pay,  Mr.  Belden.  I  would  gladly 
pay  you,  and  should  expect  to  do  so." 

"  Don't  want  it ;  wouldn't  touch  it :  come  and  try  us." 

"  I  will." 

"  Done — it's  a  bargain  !" 

"  Young  gentleman,"  turning  to  Henry,  "  you've  lost  your 
place ;  got  a  new  clerk ;  you  can  clear  out  now  as  soon  as 
you  like  ;  go  to  China,  if  you  please !" 

"  And  now,  Henry,  I  must  do  my  errand  to  you.  I  have 
good  news  to  tell  you,  and  strange,  very  strange  news,  and 
very  bad  news." 

"  Just  what  I  said  when  I  heard  the  knock.  Knew  there 
was  something  a  going  to  turn  up,  things  have  got  too 
smooth  altogether ;  ain't  natural.  Let's  hear  the  worst  first, 
though,  and  keep  the  good  news  to  the  last." 

"  I  may  as  well,  perhaps.  Louise  Lovelace  is  very  dan 
gerously  sick ;  the  physicians  think  there  is  but  little  prospect 
of  her  recovery  ;  she  is  quite  delirious,  and  seems  to  be 
growing  weaker  and  weaker  every  day. 

"  And  only  to  think,  it  has  happened  just  as  her  parentage 
has  been  discovered,  and  she  was  about  being  made  so  happy. 
In  fact,  it  is  thought  her  mind  has  given  way  under  the 
excitement,  and  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  ever  has  her  reason 
again.  And,  strangest  of  all,  she  proves  to  be  my  cousin! 
She  is  the  oldest  child  of  uncle  Frank  Marston.  No,  that  is 
not  the  strangest  thing  I  have  to  tell,  after  all :  it  is  that  this 
discovery  has  all  been  brought  about  through  you  1" 

Mr.  Belden  had  by  this  time  made  sad  havoc  with  his 
hair.  Never  at  the  worst  of  times  had  it  been  in  greater 
confusion  ;  and  the  whole  aspect  of  his  countenance  was  that 
of  the  most  profound  astonishment.  He  was  the  first  to 
speak  as  soon  as  Evart  had  finished. 

'•  I  believe  there  can't  nothing  happen  any  more  in  this 
world  but  this  young  gentleman  must  be  at  the  top  or  the 
bottom  of  it.  Only  to  think  !  there  can't  be  a  baby  stole  but 
he  must  stumble  against  it  and  find  it.  I  am  glad  he  has 
never  seen  our  babies,  for  if  any  person  should  take  a  notion 
to  hook  them  he  would  be  sure  to  come  across  them  in  some 
out  of  the  way  place  and  bring  them  back  ;  but  it  will  be  hard 
hiding  them.  Their  screeches  would  tell  where  they  were 
pretty  quick." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         309 

"  My  uncle  and  aunt  are  very  desirous  of  seeing  you,  Henry, 
before  you  leave.  They  are  in  great  trouble ;  I  never  saw  my 
uncle  so  cast  down.  He  is  not  the  same  man  as  when  you 
last  saw  him.  It  is  indeed  a  terrible  scene  altogether.  I  do 
not  know  which  to  pity  most.  Louise  is  lovely — too  lovely. 
If  she  should  die  it  will  be  a  sad  blow  to  us  all.  I  feel  gloomy 
when  I  enter  the  house  now.  She  was  always  so  pleasant." 

Henry  did  not  make  any  reply  of  consequence.  The  few 
words  Evart  had  spoken  raised  a  tumult  ot'Jeeling.  What 
ever  hope  in  reference  to  Louise  had  still  lingered  with  him 
was  now  utterly  destroyed. 

"  Louise  the  daughter  of  Capt.  Marston !  What  could  she 
ever  be  to  him  !  A  wealthy  heiress,  and  with  wealthy  parents 
of  high  standing  in  society."  He  beheld  her  now,  lifted  by 
an  act  of  Providence  far  beyond  a  height  to  which  his  hope 
dare  aspire.  These  thoughts  flashed  upon  his  mind  with 
lightning  speed.  But  she  was  ill,  she  was  dangerously  so. 
His  interest  for  her  has  not  gone,  although  his  hope  is  dead. 
"  Could  he  but  be  at  her  side ;  but  take  that  brother's  place 
which  she  herself  had  given  him.  That  wish  is  fruitless. 
Now  he  would  only  be  recognized  as  a  stranger — treated 
kindly,  no  doubt,  but  held  far  off  beyond  the  line  which  bounds 
their  domestic  circle." 

Thoughts  fly  more  quickly  than  the  pen — we  must  not 
suppose  that  Henry  was  so  long  in  making  answer  to  Evart 
as  we  have  been  in  putting  down  his  thoughts  and  feelings. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston,  and 
will  certainly  endeavor  to  do  so.  But  how  can  it  be,  Evart,  that 
I  have  had  anything  to  do  in  this  business  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you.  My  aunt  was  in  too  much  trouble  to 
give  any  particulars,  and  I  did  not  like  to  ask.  But  she  said 
it  was  all  through  you,  and  she  must  see  you." 

"  It  is  only  of  a  piece  with  the  rest  of  his  doings ;  don't  sur 
prise  me  at  all — nothing  does.  How  did  he  get  here  ?  How 
did  I  get  here !  How  did  you  I"  turning  to  Evart.  "  Turn  a 
short  corner  and  begin  a  new  chapter.  How  did  Mr.  Blen- 
ham  run  against  a  stump,  and  turn  a  somerset  and  come  up 
all  right?  And  how  did  this  young  gentleman  come  out  of  a 
hard  scratch  between  life  and  death  and  turn  up  on  a  voyage 
to  China  and  a  fortune  ahead  ?  Give  it  up  ?  He's  born  to  it— 
can't  help  it." 


310  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

"  I  expect  I  could  give  a  pretty  good  reason  for  it  all,"  said 
Evart,  "  but  as  Henry  has  forbidden  me  to  say  anything  about, 
it,  I  will  obey  him." 

"  But  are  you  in  earnest,  Mr.  Belden,  about  my  coming  here  ? 
I  should  like  it  much — but  fear  I  am  so  ignorant  of  the  de 
tails  of  business  I  should  be  of  little  use." 

"  Time  you  learned  them — crooked  world — very  ;  full  of 
Sharps  and  Catchems.  If  you've  got  anything  ahead,  you 
want  to  learn  how  to  take  care  of  it.  Just  come  here ;  come 
along  as  soon  as  you  like ;  plenty  to  do ;  rules  simple ;  mind 
your  own  business ;  do  as  you  are  bid  ;  never  shirk ;  up  to 
the  mark,  and  all  right.  Easy  sailing ;  stout  ship ;  strong  can 
vas  ;  plenty  of  ballast ;  no  fear  of  squalls,  good  pilot.  When 
will  you  come  ?'' 

"  To-morrow,  if  vou  say  so." 

"All  right." 

Henry  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  the  request  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Marston,  and  the  next  evening  he  and  Evart  were 
on  their  way  thither.  The  latter  seemed  able  to  converse  upon 
no  subject  that  was  not  in  some  way  connected  with  Louise, 
and  Henry  understood  but  too  well  that  Evart's  heart  was 
deeply  interested.  His  own  feelings  on  that  delicate  subject 
he  had  never  revealed,  and  therefore  Evart  could  speak  with 
out  any  fear  that  he  was  interfering  with  the  happiness  of  one 
whom  he  valued  so  highly  as  he  did  Henry. 

On  reaching  Mr.  Vernon's,  Henry  was  at  once  led  up  to 
Mrs.  Marston,  who  was  seated  alone  in  an  unoccupied  room. 
She  chose  a  place  of  seclusion  when  not  at  the  bed  side  of 
Louise. 

"  Oh  !"  said  she,  as  she  rose  to  meet  Henry.  "  Can  it  be  ? 
Is  this  Henry  Thornton  ?  How  you  have  grown  !" 

Mrs.  Marston  might  have  added  much  more  with  perfect 
truth.  Henry  had  indeed  grown,  not  only  in  stature,  he  had 
improved  in  personal  appearance.  He  was  somewhat  pale 
indeed,  for  he  had  not  fully  recovered  from  his  late  sickness; 
but  his  features  had  assumed  a  more  manly  cast ;  they  beamed 
with  life  and  intelligence.  His  eye,  always  bright,  was  now 
full  and  sparkling.  His  hair  had  a  darker  hue,  and  his  form 
showed  to  great  advantage,  arrayed  as  he  was  in  apparel  so 
much  in  contrast  with  that  in  which  he  had  first  appeared  to 
her. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         311 

With  much  ease  of  manner  he  received  her  salutation — but 
the  tones  of  his  voice  trembled  from  the  deep  excitement  under 
which  he  labored. 

After  a  few  moments  conversation  on  the  great  subject 
which  occupied  both  their  hearts-^-the  sickness  of  Louise, 
Mrs.  Marston  said — 

"  Whatever  may  be  the  result  of  this  dispensation,  Mr. 
Marston  and  myself  can  have  but  one  feeling  towards  you, 
Henry.  We  were  interested  in  you  from  the  first,  and  we 
have  been  anxious  to  hear  from  you,  but  Mr.  Marston's  ab 
sence  from  home  so  long,  has  prevented  him  from  searching 
you  out  as  he  intended  to  do  the  moment  he  came  to  the  city. 
We  have  been  anxious  to  do  something  for  you,  but  we  hear 
that  you  have  a  fine  situation  and  a  good  prospect  ahead. 
Anything  we  can  do  will  be  a  relief  to  our  hearts,  we  feel  so 
much  indebted  to  you." 

"  Your  kindness  is  very  great,  Mrs.  Marston ;  but  surely  it 
is  all  unmerited  by  me.  What  have  I  done  that  you  should 
feel  under  the  slightest  obligation  ?" 

"Perhaps — no  doubt  you  are  ignorant  of  the  result  of  your 
short  stay  at  our  house.  You  first  gave  an  impulse  to  a  search 
that  has  resulted  in  discovering  our  lost  child.  You  will  re 
member  how  attracted  you  were  by  the  small  portrait  of  a 
young  lady  in  Mr.  Marston's  office." 

"  I  do,  madam — and  I  think  Miss  Louise  resembles  it  much 
more  now  than  she  did  then." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  she  does  when  in  health,  for  I  can  per 
ceive  the  strong  resemblance  even  now.  But  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  all  about  her,  Henry ;  how  you  became  acquainted, 
and  how  much  you  saw  of  her,  and  whether  she  was  happy,  or 
well  treated." 

It  was  not  a  very  easy  matter  for  Henry  to  go  over  with 
the  past  scenes  in  connection  with  Louise,  for  they  recalled  old 
feelings — joys  and  hopes,  now  gone  forever — and  many  little 
circumstances  he  was  obliged  to  omit.  He  was  speaking  to 
her  mother,  "  and  it  might  not  be  agreeable  to  her  to  know 
that  he  had  ever  aspired  to  a  connection  with  the  daughter." 
And  he  remembered,  too,  that  Louise  and  he  were  but  children 
when  their  intimacy  had  been  the  closest,  "  and  their  feelings 
would  only  appear  to  others  as  childish  fancies."  He  knew 
they  were  not;  to  him  they  were  realities,  but  best  kept  to 
himself. 


312  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J    OK, 

When  Henry  had  closed,  Mrs.  Marston  took  his  hand. 

"  I  thank  you,  Henry,  for  all  your  kindness  to  my  dear  child. 
But  I  must  ask  you  :  Did  you  know  of  her  peculiar  situation  ? 
was  it  known  generally  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  not  known  generally.  I  knew  it — but 
only  on  the  day  I  parted  from  her  at  Stratton. 

"  How  did  it  happen  to  be  told  you  then  ?' 

Henry  hesitated  a  moment,  but  resolved  to  tell  the  whole 
truth. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,  Mrs.  Marston  ;  I  was  then,  so  it 
seems  to  me  now,  many  years  younger,  and  perhaps  had 
childish  notions,  but  I  had  become  very  fond  of  Louise,  and 
when  I  came  to  separate  from  her  I  felt  as  if  I  was  losing  all 
the  world,  especially  as  she  had  taken  the  trouble  to  ride 
some  miles  in  order  to  bid  me  good-bye.  I  had  then  no  one 
to  love  me.  My  mother  was  dead — and  how  could  I  help  it, 
Mrs  Marston  ?  I  tried  to  have  Louise  give  me  her  promise, 
that  if  I  should  succeed  and  be  prospered,  and  become  a  man 
she  could  'respect,  that — that  she  " 

"  Never  mind,  Henry  ;  I  know  what  you  mean.  I  do  not 
wonder  at  your  feelings  ;  there  was  nothing  wrong  or  dishon 
orable  in  them.  Did  she  promise  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Marston,  never.  She  was  frank,  however, 
and  said  that  I  was  dearer  to  her  than  any  other  human 
being,  but  she  could  never  give  me  that  promise.  She  was, 
she  said,  much  more  desolate  than  I  was :  she  knew  not  who 
were  her  parents ;  they  might  be  mere  outcasts,  or  guilty 
persons,  and  she  would  never  allow  me  to  hope  that  I  could 
be  anything  to  her  but  a  brother.  And  then  she  wanted  me 
to  take  her  purse,  but  I  could  not  do  it.  She  then  took  a 
hair  ring  from  her  finger — her  own  hair,  clasped  by  a  small 
gold  locket :  '  Here,  Henry,'  she  said,  '  take  this,  it  is  a 
sister's  gift ;  keep  it  as  such.'  " 

"  And  have  you  it  still  ?" 

Henry  took  from  his  pocket-book  a  small  ivory  box,  and 
opening  it,  showed  to  Mrs.  Marston  the  precious  treasure, 
lying  by  itself  in  a  bed  of  rose-colored  tissue  paper. 

"  With  your  leave,  Mrs.  Marston,  I  should  wish  to  keep  it ; 
no  one  but  yourself  has  ever  seen  it  since  it  has  been  in  my 
possession,  and  no  one  shall  ever  see  it  but  her  parents  or  she 
who  gave  it  to  me." 

Mrs.  Marston  was  deeply  affected  with  the  sight  of  this 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         313 

token  of  her  child's  past  experience,  and  her  heart  embraced 
Henry  with  a  stronger  hold  than  ever. 

"I  rejoice,  Henry,  at  what  you  have  told  me,  although  my 
rejoicing  is  mingled  with  sadness  at  the  thought  of  what  she 
must  have  suffered.  You,  however,  she  could  confide  in  ; 
you  she  loved,  I  have  no  doubt,  and,  should  she  be  spared, 
you  and  she  may  meet  under  very  different  circumstances. 
It  is  not  for  me  to  say ;  how  you  may  feel  or  she  may  feel 
cannot  now  be  known.  Time  makes  great  changes  in  our 
circumstances,  as  well  as  in  our  views  and  feelings  ;  but  one 
thing  I  can  say  to  you,  in  all  candor  and  honesty,  that  it 
gives  me  great  pleasure  to  know  that  Louise  could  confide  in 
one  so  worthy  of  her,  as  I  believe  you  to  be ;  and  if  you 
maintain  your  present  character,  of  which  I  hear  so  much, 
you  will  ever  be  hailed  by  my  husband  and  myself  as  one 
whom  we  are  proud  to  own  and  to  love.  But  I  have  more  to 
tell  you. 

"  You  remember,  Henry,  the  Sabbath  which  you  spent  at 
our  house  ?  it  was  a  beautiful  morning,  and  I  walked  into  our 
garden  to  enjoy  the  fresh  air  and  the  birds  and  flowers.  I 
found  you  sitting  in  the  summer-house." 

"  I  do  remember  it,  Mrs.  Marston  ;  it  was  a  very  beautiful 
day  ;  I  shall  never  forget  it" 

"  Nor  I  either,  Henry.  You  started  a  little,  for  I  came 
upon  you  unobserved ;  you  was  reading ;  I  asked  you  what 
book  you  had?  You  replied,  'That  you  had  found  a  Bible 
lying  among  the  books  in  the  bookcase  of  the  office,  and  had 
ventured  to  take  it  with  you.'  I  told  you  that  you  did  per 
fectly  right ;  and  then  I  asked  you  if  you  liked  to  read  it. 
Do  you  remember  how  you  answered  me  ?" 

"  Not  particularly,  Mrs.  Marston." 

"  I  do,  Henry  ;  and  I  remember  the  very  expression  of 
your  countenance.  '  Oh,  yes,'  you  said, '  it  is  so  full  of  beau 
tiful  expressions;  it  seems  to  make  God  appear  so  like  a 
friend — a  father.  Do  you  not  think  it  does,  Mrs.  Marston  ?' 
That  look,  Henry,  and  that  question  shook  my  very  heart. 
Oh,  I  had  never  loved  that  book!  I  had  suffered  it  to  lie 
from  year  to  year  untouched,  and  now  how  strange  it  seemed, 
an  unknown  youth  had  been  sent  to  draw  it  from  its  hiding- 
place,  and  unconsciously  to  put  a  question  to  me  concerning 
it  that  was  like  a  dagger  to  my  heart.  I  think  I  must  have 

14 


314  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

appeared  confused.  I  asked  you,  then,  what  part  you  were 
reading,  and  you  showed  me,  it  was  the  103d  Psalm.  I  sat 
down  by  you  and  asked  you  to  read  aloud,  and  as  ypu  read 
it  seemed  to  me  that  you  felt  every  word,  and  even  at  times 
your  voice  trembled.  I  thanked  you  when  you  had  finished, 
and  soon  left  you  to  the  enjoyment  of  your  meditations ;  but 
I  have  since  taken  that  Bible  to  my  own  room  ;  it  has  been 
a  new  book  to  me,  and  now,  dear  Henry,  I  can  see  the  beau 
ties  in  it  which  you  seemed  to  see  and  feel.  Oh,  I  shall  ever 
bless  the  Lord  for  that  Sabbath  morning,  and  for  those  words 
you  spoke,  and  that  look  you  gave  me.  Only  go  on,  Henry, 
and  tread  steadily  the  path  you  have  chosen,  and  may  the 
Great  Keeper  bless  you  for  ever !" 

Before  Henry  had  time  to  express  his  sense  of  gratitude  for 
her  kind  expressions,  Mrs.  Marston  was  suddenly  called  away, 
"  Louise  appeared  to  be  much  worse  !" 

He  waited  awhile  in  the  hope  of  seeing  once  more  his  kind 
friend,  Captain  Marston,  but  he  was  told  "  that  both  parents 
•were  at  the  bed-side,  and  that  the  young  lady  was  failing 
fast !"  so  he  quietly  withdrew.  As  he  was  passing  from  the 
street  door,  Mr.  Vernon  beckoned  to  him.  That  gentleman 
had  just  come  from  her  room  :  his  countenance  bore  the 
marks  of  serious  alarm.  In  a  low  voice,  he  said — 

"  I  fear  all  our  hopes  are  blasted  !" 

"  She  is  much  worse,  then  ?" 

"  Yes :  it  will  be  a  terrible  blow  to  my  dear  friends,  and  to 
all  of  us;  we  all  love  her,  and  it  seems  so  sad  to  lose  her  just 
in  this  way,  when  the  moment,  the  happiest  moment  of  her 
life  had  come.  When  do  you  sail  ?" 

"  In  two  or  three  days." 

"  It  will  all  be  over  before  then !  Farewell,  my  young 
friend  ;  I  shall  not  be  able  to  see  you  again.  Keep  to  your 
text-book,  consult  it  daily,  walk  steadily  by  its  instructions, 
and  leave  all  the  contingencies  of  life  to  Him  who  orders  all 
things  well. 

"  You  will  feel  this  stroke,  I  know  ;  her  young  and  loving 
heart  was  more  deeply  interested  in  you  than  any  one  knows 
of  besides  myself.  She  was  your  true  friend,  and  she  had  the 
most  firm  faith  in  your  friendship  for  her.  The  last  words 
she  said  to  me  about  you — for  she  spoke  much  about  you  in 
the  early  part  of  her  sickness — were : 


A.LONB   ON   A    WIDE,    WIDE   SEA.  315 

"  '  I  know  Henry;  I  know  him  well ;  he  is  true — he  will  be 
true  to  the  last.'' 

"  Treasure  up  these  words,  I  have  no  doubt  they  uttered 
the  true  feelings  of  her  heart." 

With  a  silent  grasp  of  the  hand,  Henry  parted  from  Mr. 
Vernon,  and  descended  the  steps.  Evart  did  not  accompany 
him,  so  he  could  indulge  his  own  reflections.  His  thoughts 
dwelt  upon  the  scene  he  had  just  passed  through.  He 
recalled  every  word  Mrs.  Marston  had  said ;  over  and  over  he 
repeated  them,  until  they  were  embalmed  as  precious  relics 
of  the  past. 

And  then  the  mysterious  power  which  his  own  simple,  un 
conscious  influence  had  exerted  over  one  of  such  superior  mind 
and  station  as  Mrs.  Marston,  came  up  to  view.  He  recalled 
that  scene,  and  all  the  thoughts  which  had  then  been  most  pro 
minent  ;  how  alone  he  felt  except  when  communing  with  his 
God.  How  rich  to  him  then  were  the  words  of  the  inspired 
hook !  And  he  remembered  the  tender  tones  in  which  Mrs. 
Marston  had  spoken  to  him  on  that  quiet  Sabbath  morning, 
and  the  look  of  surprise  she  fixed  upon  him  as  he  asked  her 
that  simple  question  ;  and  the  tear  which  he  saw  gathering 
in  her  beautiful  eye.  Now,  he  could  understand  its  cause ; 
and  his  heart  gave  praise  to  God  that  his  young  life  had  been 
thus  instrumental  for  good  to  one  who  had  been  so  generous 
to  him.  No  pride  sullied  that  pure  thanksgiving;  he  felt  that 
nothing  had  been  done  by  him ;  he  was  at  the  time  merely 
trying  to  feel  his  way  along,  alone  and  without  earthly  help 
ers,  and  to  stay  himself  upon  the  unseen  Hand ;  and  in  that 
simple  process  a  power  had  been  sent  forth,  unthought  of  by 
himself,  and  a  lovely  wife  and  mother  had  been  brought  to 
consider  her  ways,  and  to  turn  her  thoughts  above.  And 
now  what  could  he  do  but  bless  the  Lord  for  his  goodness, 
who  had  all  along  mingled  with  whatever  had  been  bitter  in 
his  cup  of  life  the  honeydew  of  loving-kindness. 

The  day  of  sailing  at  length  arrived,  and  Mr.  Belden  had 
been  very  busy  gathering  little  "  nick-nacks"  for  Henry,  and 
stowing  them  away  in  tin  canisters  in  his  trunk,  and  giving 
him  directions  about  eating ;  and  for  what  purpose  certain 
medicines  were  which  he  had  put  away  for  him,  and  labelled; 
and  especially  did  he  charge  him  on  the  subject  of  dietetics. 

"  You  know,  here  there  is  no  living  without  a  man  keeps 


316  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  J   OK, 

a  good  look-out  for  the  main  chance,  and  keeps  a  good  stock 
on  hand,  and  lays  in  the  supplies  at  least  three  times  a  day  ; 
but  different  state  of  things  when  you  once  get  rolling  about 
like  a  cork  in  a  boiling  pot — unsteady,  whirling,  giddy, 
qualmish ;  give  in,  lay  flat,  stop  the  supplies,  little  at  a  time  ; 
hard  crackers,  pickles,  salt  pork,  dried  beef — just  enough  to 
keep  life  agoing — better  after  awhile. 

"  But  when  you  get  to  China,  remember  the  pig-tails  are 
hard  customers  ;  dirty,  very;  eat  cats,  dogs,  mice,  snails,  and 
snakes  into  the  bargain.  Keep  sharp  look-out:  stews  dan 
gerous  ;  soups,  too,  very  ;  eggs,  crackers,  rice,  chicken  legs, 
beef,  if  any  to  be  had — scarce,  very ;  be  sure  it  aint  an  old 
Chinaman  ;  hams — bought  here,  be  sure  of  that ;  eyes  open  ; 
fruits  plenty — lemons,  oranges,  pine  apples.  Keep  cool,  and 
stay  home  at  nights." 

And  every  once  in  a  while  Mr.  Belden  had  a  word  to  say 
about  accounts — "  balancing  cash,  and  keeping  up  to  the 
mark." 

"  Never  be  drove,  ain't  pleasant ;  weather  hot,  muggy. 
Keep  ahead,  and  drive !"  Thereby  intimating  to  Henry  the 
necessity  of  being  prompt  with  what  he  had  to  do,  that  his 
accounts  might  not  get  behind-hand  and  give  him  extra 
trouble.  All  which  directions  Henry  promised  faithfully  to 
attend  to. 

The  ship  lay  off  in  the  stream,  and  a  boat  was  to  be  in 
readiness  by  the  stairs  at  Whitehall,  at  ten  o'clock,  to  convey 
the  few  passengers  on  board  who  were  bound  for  the  long 
voyage. 

Mr.  Blenham  and  his  brother  had  already  started  in  a 
hack,  to  make  a  call  or  two,  and  would  be  back  in  time. 

Mr.  Belden  for  an  hour  previous  was  all  bustle  and 
motion.  He  had  the  cartman  to  call,  and  the  porter  to 
assist  with  the  trunks,  and  he  kept  going  in  and  out,  and  up 
stairs  and  down,  doing  something,  but  what  ne;ther  Henry 
nor  Evart  could  very  well  say ;  and  when  for  a  moment  he 
was  stationary,  his  tongue  was  busily  employed  in  giving 
directions. 

At  length  he  changes  his  coat,  puts  on  his  hat,  feels  for 
his  gloves,  and  casting  a  hasty  look  at  the  young  men,  who 
are  standing  arm  in  arm  waiting  his  signal,  he  walks  straight 
out,  and  they  follow  on. 


317 

It  required  a  quick  step  to  keep  up  with  Mr.  Belden  gene 
rally,  but  now  he  seemed  in  an  extra  hurry.  Henry  and 
Evart,  however,  managed  to  keep  close  behind  him,  but  he 
neither  spoke  to  them  nor  they  to  him,  nor  did  they  have 
much  to  say  to  each  other.  They  had  been  constantly  toge 
ther  of  late,  and  had  said  all  they  had  to  say,  and,  among 
other  things,  had  talked  in  a  very  calm  and  philosophic 
manner  about  their  separation,  and  had  come  to  the  conclu 
sion,  *'  that  if  friends  had  perfect  confidence  in  each  other, 
and  were  busily  employed  in  the  discharge  of  duty,  and  kept 
a  journal  of  each  day's  scenes,  and  occasionally  exchanged 
them,  it  would  not  be  such  a  terrible  thing  after  all  to  be 
separated — that  is,  for  a  time."  All  this  answered  well 
enough  when  the  day  of  parting  was  somewhat  ahead  ;  but 
now  it  had  come,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  must  take  the 
last  grasp  of  the  hand,  and  look  into  each  other's  faces  for 
the  last  time  for  many  years,  perhaps  forever.  They  both 
felt,  that  to  reason  about  events  in  which  the  heart  is  con 
cerned  in  anticipation,  and  the  heart  itself,  are  different 
matters. 

Mr.  Belden  has  at  length  stopped ;  a  little  crowd  is 
gathered  where  he  has  halted  ;  trunks  were  being  carried 
down  the  stairs,  at  the  foot  of  which  lay  closely  hauled  the 
little  boat,  manned  by  six  stout  oarsmen. 

Mr.  Blenham  was  there,  shaking  hands  with  the  captain  ; 
and  Henry  heard  the  latter  say, 

"  We  are  off  at  the  instant>— jump  aboard." 

Mr.  Belden  had  seen  the  trunks  on  board,  received  from 
Mr.  Blenham  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  and  now  he  runs 
up  the  stairs  coughing  quite  hard,  so  much  so  that  he  is  all 
choked  up  and  cannot  say  a  word.  Henry  clasped  Mr. 
Belden's  hand  with  both  of  his,  and  Mr.  Belden  did  the  same 
to  him.  Mr.  Belden  could  not  speak  for  the  coughing,  and 
Henry  could  not  speak  for  other  reasons;  and  then  the 
former  broke  quickly  away,  and,  looking  neither  to  the  right 
hand  nor  the  left,  hastened  through  the  crowd  back  to  his 
office. 

Evart  walked  down  the  stairs  with  his  friend  ;  a  moment 
they  stand  side  by  side,  pressing  each  other's  hands,  but  not 
daring  to  meet  each  other's  eye. 

Henry  steps  on  board,  and  takes  a  seat  beside  Mr.  Blen 


318  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

ham ;  the  captain  raises  his  hand,  the  boat  moves  from  the 
stairs,  the  oars  plash  into  the  water,  the  men  bend  to  their 
work,  and  away  the  light  craft  speeds  like  an  arrow  on  her 
watery  course. 

Evart  steps  upon  the  Battery  and  waves  his  handkerchief, 
and  handkerchiefs  are  waved  from  the  boat,  and  until  she 
has  n eared  the  ship  these  silent  tokens  of  adieu  are  oft 
repeated. 

And  now  they  are  alongside,  and  the  distant  "  Yo,  heave, 
yo !"  comes  over  the  water,  and  the  sails  unfurl,  and  the 
stately  ship  falls  off  to  the  breeze,  and  slowly  moves  on  her 
way  to  the  ocean. 

Evart  has  no  heart  to  remain  longer ;  he  is  now  conscious 
that  a  wide,  wide  gulf  has  interposed  its  impassable  chasm 
between  him  and  his  dearest  friend  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  skill  of  physicians  had  been  exhausted  at  the  sick  bed 
of  Louise ;  they  had  done  what  they  could,  and  friends  had 
watched  untiring  night  and  day  ;  but  still  the  raging  fever  ran 
on,  and  the  pulse  retained  its  rapid,  fitful  beat,  only  becoming 
feebler  every  day ;  nature  was  losing  its  power,  her  emaciated 
frame  was  no  longer  tossing  restlessly  from  side  to  side,  she 
lay  quietly  now,  and,  although  her  mind  was  still  in  the 
strange  world  of  delirium,  she  ceased  to  utt|r  her  wild 
thoughts ;  nor  was  her  breathing  like  that  of  rest,  it  was 
hard,  almost  as  a  continual  suppressed  groan ;  and  when  she 
slept  there  was  scarcely  a  perceptible  change  from  her  waking 
state,  except  in  the  closing  of  her  eyes. 

A  month  had  passed — a  long,  painful,  anxious  month  ;  she 
had  fallen  asleep  about  the  setting  of  the  sun,  and  the 
parents,  at  the  solicitation  of  Mr.  Vernon,  had  retired  to  get 
what  rest  their  wearied  natures  demanded,  he  and  his  sister 
promising  to  remain  by  her,  and  if  any  change  took  place  for 
i  lie  worse  to  let  them  know  in  time — no  change  for  the 
better  could  be  expected  now.  And  the  watchers  took  their 
seats,  and  the  hours  of  the  night  ran  on  ;  the  rumbling  vehi 
cles  that  passed  from  time  to  time  awoke  her  not,  and  when 
at  last  they  ceased  their  noise,  and  the  restless  city  had  sunk 
to  silence,  and  naught  was  heard  but  the  deep  breathing  of 
the  sleeper,  there  they  sat. 

The  morning  hours  were  beginning  to  strike,  when  Mr. 
Vernon  arose  and  leaned  his  head  near  to  Louise. 

'•  Anything  the  matter,  James  ?"  His  sister  spoke  scarcely 
above  a  whisper. 

"  I  imagine  a  change  of  some  kind  is  taking  place." 

"  Shall  I  go  and  call  them  ?" 

"  Not  quite  yet ;  listen  yourself." 

"  I  had  better  call  them,  James ;  there  is  a  change,  and 
her  skin  is  moist.  She  is  sinking !  It  must  be  the  last 
struggle !" 

"  Wait,  wait  Amelia  !  not  yet ;  her  breathing  is  more  faint ; 

819 


320  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

but  do  you  not  think  it  is  more  regular  ?  it  is  not  so 
quick." 

"  But  is  not  this  the  death  sweat  ?  her  forehead  is  quite 
moist,  and  it  feels  cold  to  me.  Shall  I  speak  to  her?" 

"By  no  means ;  wait,  a  short  time  will  decide." 

And  again  they  take  their  seats  ;  each  listening  with  eager 
ness  for  any  sign  that  might  indicate  the  approach  of  the 
dreaded  end. 

Mr.  Vernon,  however,  had  allowed  his  hopes  to  be  kindled. 
He  had  been  much  with  the  sick  and  had  seen  strange  changes 
when  all  expectations  of  life  had  been  relinquished  ;  but  now 
he  was  not  a  mere  watcher ;  his  heart  was  most  deeply  inter 
ested  ;  he  could  not  give  her  up  ;  he  had  not  done  so ;  although 
but  faint,  his  hope  was  still  alive.  It  was  not  surprising,  thec, 
that  he  should  grasp  at  the  slightest  token  of  the  accomplish 
ment  of  his  heart's  intense  desire. 

But  his  sister  began  to  be  more  alarmed. 

"  I  fear  James  we  are  doing  wrong.  She  may  drop  off  in 
an  instant :  it  seems  to  me  life  is  departing ;  I  can  scarcely 
hear  that  she  breathes  at  all." 

"•  The  pulse  does  not  indicate  immediate  danger ;  it  has 
changed,  that  is  true ;  it  is  feeble ;  very  feeble,  but  it  is  more 
regular  ;  it  is  softer.  Oh,  Amelia,  I  cannot  but  hope  ?" 

"  James,  how  can  you  say  so  !  you  are  too  sanguine ;  you 
have  been,  I  fear,  too  much  so  all  along." 

A  slight  sigh  from  the  sleeper  startled  them  both. 

"  How  natural,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  after  a  short  pause.  His 
sister  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  but  said  nothing. 

"  This  sleep  will  no  doubt  be  her  last,  or  it  will  prove  the 
change  from  death  to  life.  That  sigh  was  a  good  sign." 

"  Had  you  not  better  wake  her,  James,  and  give  her  some 
gentle  stimulant?  I  fear  she  will  be  past  help  if  she  ever  does 
wake." 

"  Not  ye> ;  I  will  watch  her  pulse." 

Another  hour  has  passed ;  the  heavy  clock  on  the  nearest 
steeple  strikes  three. 

"  Now  listen,  Amelia ;  her  breathing  is  surely  more  natural ; 
she  seems  to  be  taking  rest." 

"  It  does  seem  so,  indeed !     Oh,  can  there  be  hope  ?" 

'i'God  can  do  all  things." 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  the  anxious  parents  entered. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         321 

They  came  up  to  her  bed  and  looked  and  listened  a  moment, 
and  then  turned  their  eyes  most  anxiously  to  Mr.  Vernon. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed  ;  there  is  a  change  apparently  for  the 
better ;  but  we  cannot  tell.  She  has  slept  through  the  night 
thus  far.  Nature  seems  to  be  at  rest ;  be  calm — be  patient — 
be  submissive.  But  you  had  better  not  be  present  when  she 
wakes  ;  it  may  be  that  reason  will  be  partially  restored  ;  you 
will  be  strangers  to  her.  I  will  watch  faithfully.  This  sleep 
may  do  what  nothing  yet  has  been  able  to  accomplish.  Go 
and  take  further  rest ;  trust  to  me." 

They  each  grasped  his  hand  in  silence,  and  as  he  had  re 
quested,  left  the  room. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  the  physicians  came,  and  walked  with 
noiseless  step  to  the  bedside  and  looked  at  her,  and  at  each 
other  ;  and  then  again  at  her ;  and  each  in  turn  stooped  over 
and  listened,  and  each  in  turn  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her 
pulse,  and  then  as  quietly  they  walked  toward  the  window, 
and  conversed  together ;  and  then  one  of  them  beckoned  to 
Mr.  Vernon,  who  still  sat  by  her  side.  He  had  not  yet  left 
the  room.  And  then  they  talked  with  him  and  asked  "  at 
what  hour  the  change  took  place,"  "  and  how  long  she  had 
slept  thus  sweetly ;"  they  said  sweetly ;  and  then  they  told 
him  to  let  her  sleep,  and  that  nature  might  do  what  they  failed 
to  do.  Mr.  Vernon  had  thought  so  all  along,  and  was  but 
too  glad  to  hear  them  confirm  his  hopes.  And  then  they 
walked  to  the  bedside  again  and  listened ;  and  again  they 
felt  the  pulse,  and  again  looked  at  each  other,  and  finally  went 
out  as  noiselessly  as  they  had  entered,  saying  as  they  departed, 

"  We  will  be  here  in  a  few  hours  again.  When  she  wakes 
should  she  seem  exhausted,  give  her  a  little  sling." 

The  physicians  have  come  in  again.  Louise  is  sleeping 
still;  but  has  been  awake;  and  Mr.  Vernon,  as  directed,  has 
administered  a  spoonful  or  two  of  gentle  stimulant,  and  then 
without  speaking,  she  sunk  to  sleep  again. 

Occasionally  she  heaves  a  sigh,  and  with  more  and  more 
apparent  strength.  She  did  so  while  the  physicians  stood 
beside  her,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled,  and  one 
of  them  said, 

"  Natural !" 

And  the  others  replied, 

'•  Quite  so !" 

14* 


322  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST;    OB, 

And  they  whisper  to  Mr.  Vernon  "  She  is  better ;"  and  he 
nods  his  head,  he  had  no  doubt  of  that;  and  then  they  say 
again  "  let  her  sleep ;  and  when  she  wakes,  give  her  a  little 
nourishment;  we  must  help  nature." 

Mr.  Vernon  thought  so  too,  and  only  wished  that  more  bad 
been  done  to  help  nature  long  before  ;  but  he  did  not  say  so ; 
he  was  but  too  glad  that  their  present  directions  corresponded 
with  his  own  views. 

And  thus  she  struggled  through.  The  turn  had  been  made 
from  death  to  life. 

At  length  she  awoke  to  consciousness.  Conscious  of  being 
very  weak,  and  that  she  was  on  a  sick  bed,  and  that  friends, 
dear  friends,  were  about  her. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston  were  allowed  to  see  her  as  friends, 
whom  she  was  told  had  been  about  her  much  while  she  had 
been  ill ;  but  their  names  were  not  mentioned.  She  thanked 
them  in  a  feeble  voice,  and  when  the  mother  gave  her  a  gentle 
kiss,  Louise  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  she  fixed  her  eye 
upon  the  lovely  woman  who  looked  so  tenderly  at  her,  and 
seemed  pleased  to  have  her  smooth  her  brow  and  bathe  her 
temples.  And  under  these  pleasing  ministrations  she  fell 
asleep. 

Mr.  Vernon  was  too  happy  now  to  be  long  away  from  her 
bedside ;  for  she  recognized  him  and  seemed  to  rest  more 
peacefully  when  he  was  by. 

On  awakening  from  a  short  sleep  and  receiving  some  nour 
ishment  from  his  hand,  she  said  to  him — 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  who  that  lady  is  who  seems  to  feel 
so  kindly,  and  takes  such  tender  care  of  me,  and  always  kisses 
me  when  she  comes  and  goes — that  one  who  is  so  beautiful  ? 
I  think  she  has  been  about  me  a  great  deal,  for  I  have  had 
an  idea  that  an  angel  came  at  times,  and  told  me  softly  that 
T  would  be  better.  Who  is  she,  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  talk  much  yet, 
dear  Louise  ;  be  satisfied  to  know  that  you  have  many  friends ; 
so  many  that  we  have  been  able  to  take  care  of  you  by  day 
and  night  without  weariness.  You  are  much  better  now  ;  but 
you  must  have  more  rest,  you  need  to  be  very  quiet.  You 
will  see  all  your  friends  when  you  get  a  little  stronger." 

"  Will  she  come  again  soon,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — come  often." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         323 

"  I  am  so  glad ;  I  never  saw  a  face  that  looked  so  beautiful 
to  me.  She  must  be  very  kind  and  good ;  but  I  will  not  talk 
if  you  say  no." 

It  was  three  days  after  Louise  had  began  decidedly  to  im 
prove  that  Mrs.  Marston  entered  the  room,  having  been  called 
by  Mr.  Vernon.  She  saw  that  Louise  was  quite-  herself,  and 
was  gaining  strength. 

As  Mrs.  Marston  came  up  to  the  bed  and  stooped  over  to 
give  her  usual  kiss,  Louise  put  her  arm  around  her  neck. 

"  Tell  me — tell  me — can  it  be !     Are  you  my  mother  ?" 

"lam,  my  dear — and  you  are  my  own,  dear,  dear  daughter !" 

"  I  have  suspected  that  it  must  be  so,  for  I  remember  some 
things  which  took  place  just  before  my  sickness,  and,  as  I 
have  seen  you  about  me,  I  have  thought  that  perhaps  it  was 
all  true,  for  although  it  seems  to  me  like  a  dream,  that  part 
of  it  appears  a  reality.  My  mother !  my  mother!  Oh, 
thanks,  thanks,  thanks !  I  am  too  happy.  And  a  father, 
too  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  a  kind,  dear,  loving  father ;  you  have  got  us 
both,  dear." 

"  Where  is  he  ?     May  I  not  see  him  ?" 

"  You  shall,  my  dear ;  but  be  quiet  as  you  are ;  this  joy 
may  be  more  than  you  can  bear  just  now,  you  are  still  so 
weak." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear  mother ;  I  will  do  just  as  you  say.  It  is  so 
sweet  to  feel  you  by  me,  to  hear  your  voice,  to  know  that  I 
must  obey  you.  Oh,  I  can  rest  now.  But  may  I  see  him 
soon  ?" 

Mrs.  Marston  looked  at  Mr.  Vernon,  and  he  left  the  room. 
He  had  been  highly  gratified  to  find  that  the  mother  had 
maintained  such  a  quiet  manner,  but  he  had  less  confidence 
in  the  fortitude  of  her  husband.  Marston  had  strong,  even 
violent  feelings  when  thoroughly  aroused,  and  he  had  been 
now  for  some  time  not  only  much  excited,  but  his  nerves  were 
weakened  by  prolonged  anxiety.  He  had  strong  affections : 
his  wife  and  children  were  too  much  indeed  the  idols  of  his 
heart,  but  this  recovered  treasure  seemed  more  precious  than 
all  the  rest.  To  know  that  she  received  him  as  her  father, 
to  hear  her  call  him  by  that  sacred  name,  to  press  her  to  his 
heart,  his  own  dear  recovered  child,  was  a  vision  that  had 
haunted  his  waking  and  sleeping  hours. 


324:  TKUlS  TO   THE   LAST,    OB; 

"  Now,  dear  Frank,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  "  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  that  you  can  be  introduced  as  the  father  of  Louise." 

"  Has  she  seen  her  mother  ?" 

"  Oh,  jes." 

u  I  mean  as  such  ;  has  she  been  told  the  truth  ?" 

"  She  has ;  and  her  heart  acknowledges  the  claim,  .and 
they  are  lying  side  by  side — 'the  daughter  clasped  to  the  mo 
ther's  breast." 

"  Oh,  God,  I  have  been  a  sinful  man!     This  is  too  good." 

"And  she  has  asked  for  you,  and  is  now  waiting  to  receive 
your  embrace.  But  stay,  dear  Frank,  stay  one  moment ; 
listen  to  me :  command  yourself.  Caroline  has  behaved 
nobly ;  there  was  no  outbreak,  nothing  to  increase  the  ex 
citement  of  the  occasion." 

"  I  will  be  calm,  James ;  but  to  have  her  eye  fix  a  loving 
look  on  me,  to  hear  her  call  me  father,  to  know  that  our 
years  of  anxiety  are  at  an  end,  and  to  hope  that  she  may  be 
restored  to  health — it  is  too  much  for  such  an  unworthy  being 
as  I  have  been  !  Come,  James,  go  with  me  :  I  will  be  calm. 
Come,  go  with  me,  and  there,  at  that  bedside,  Caroline  and  I 
will  kneel  down  with  you  while  you  render  the  thanks  I 
know  not  how  to  present  to  that  Almighty  Being  to  whom 
we  owe  so  much.  Come,  James." 

Mr.  Vernon  could  make  no  reply.  This  was  to  him  a 
crowning  joy ;  never  before  had  his  dear  friend  manifested 
such  feelings.  The  strong  man  had  been  brought  to  know 
that  there  was  a  stronger  than  he,  who  ruled  his  destiny  and 
ordered  the  circumstances  of  bis  being  and  of  his  relations  in 
life.  He  was  willing,  yea  anxious,  now  to  bow  the  knee  in 
acknowledgment  of  Providential  mercies.  He  might  yet  be 
brought  to  bow  before  the  cross  of  Christ,  and  acknowledge 
his  infinite  obligations  for  redeeming  love. 

Captain  Marston  did  no  doubt  make  a  strong  effort  to. be 
have  with  composure  ;  but  it  was  a  thrilling  sight  to  him  to 
behold,  as  he  entered  the  room,  his  dear  Caroline  folding  to 
her  bosom  their  long-lost  child.  That  was  enough  of  itself 
to  have  stirred  the  depths  of  his  feeling  heart ;  but  as  he 
came  up  to  them,  Louise  turned  her  eyes  lovingly  upon  him. 
She  put  out  her  hand. 

"  My  dear,  dear  father  !" 

He  stooped  his  face  to  hers,  and  put  his  arm  over  both  the 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        325 

dear  objects  of  affection.  His  whole  frame  was  convulsed  by 
the  painful  effort  he  made  to  suppress  any  outbreak  of  feeling. 

Mr.  Vernon  came  up,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  friend. 

"  Now  let  us  all  give  thanks  to  the  Lord  for  what  his  mer 
ciful  providence  has  accomplished !" 

Still  holding  the  hand  of  his  dear  Louise,  Captain  Marston 
sunk  to  his  knees,  and  in  a  moment  more  his  lovely  wife  took 
her  place  beside  him,  and  their  full  hearts-were  relieved  as 
they  can  only  be  when  poured  out  in  submission  and  grati 
tude. 

As  the  strength  of  Louise  became  able  to  bear  conversation 
of  any  length,  and  to  enter  into  it  herself,  many  revelations 
were  made  by  her,  and  to  her,  connected  with  past  scenes ; 
and  Mr.  Vernon  had  also  many  things  to  tell,  which,  during 
the  excitement  occasioned  by  her  illness,  the  parents  had  not 
cared  to  hear,  nor  he  to  relate.  And  more  and  more  was 
daily  brought  to  light  of  the  untiring  faithfulness  of  their 
friend,  in  following  out  through  all  its  windings  the  great 
secret. 

As  it  had  been  such  a  family  affair,  every  effort  was  made 
to  let  the  public  know  as  little  about  it  as  possible ;  and,  be 
yond  those  who  had  been  called  together  as  witnesses,  and 
doubtless  their  immediate  friends,  few  knew  the  story,  and, 
to  the  satisfaction  of  both  Louise  and  her  parents,  it  did  not 
get  into  the  public  prints. 

Louise  and  Caroline  never  met  again,  much  to  the  regret 
of  the  former ;  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marston  saw  her,  and  gave 
her  not  only  every  assurance  that  they  laid  not  the  act  to 
her  charge,  but  that  they  felt  under  lasting  obligations  for 
the  care  she  had  taken,  and  all  the  faithful  interest  she  had 
manifested  for  Louise.  They  did  what  they  could  to  fill  her 
heart  with  comfort  and  smooth  her  last  hours.  No  luxury 
that  money  could  purchase  was  wanting  at  the  sick  bed  of 
Caroline,  nor  was  any  attention  withheld  that  interested 
friends  could  afford. 

It  would  have  been  a  matter  of  rejoicing  could  her  life 
have  been  spared,  that  those  who  felt  so  much  indebted  for 
her  unselfish  care  of  their  child,  and  by  means  of  which  that 
lost  one  had  been  finally  restored,  might  have  had  an  oppor 
tunity  to  manifest  their  gratitude  in  a  more  substantial  way. 
But  her  days  were  numbered,  and  all  that  could  be  done  for 


326  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST. 

her  was  to  make  her  passage  to  the  tomb  as  easy  as  they 
could. 

One  secret  had  been  committed  by  Caroline  to  Mr.  Vernon, 
which  to  his  mind  threw  light  upon  the  hitherto  unaccount 
able  disappearance  of  Bobbin  Byfield.  He  never  revealed  it, 
for  its  knowledge  would  never  have  availed  nothing,  and 
when  among  the  rubbish  at  Tyrrel  Place  the  laborers  who 
were  clearing  it  away  found  the  charred  remains  of  a  human 
being,  he  did  not  think  it  necessary  for  him  to  say  whose  re 
lics  he  supposed  they  were.  Silence  in  reference  to  the  whole 
of  that  unhappy  episode  in  the  history  of  those  with  whom  he 
had  once  been  familiar,  he  thought  might  as  well  be  ob 
served,  as  all  were  now  at  rest  in  their  graves. 

And  now  for  home — a  new  place  for  Louise.  That  blissful 
word  had  never  touched  her  heart  before,  she  knew  it  only 
as  the  designation  of  her  tarrying-place  for  the  time — a  spot 
at  times  agreeable,  but  never  taking  any  hold  upon  her  heart, 
and,  alas !  too  often  embittered  by  many  little  trials  none 
knew  of  but  herself.  The  home  of  her  parents,  where  loving 
hearts  would  embrace  her,  where  every  eye  would  beam  with 
affection,  and  every  word  be  true  and  kind ;  where  common 
interests  would  unite,  and  common  joys  and  sorrows  touch 
the  same  chord  in  every  heart.  How  her  bosom  heaved  with 
emotion  as  by  her  side  her  parents  sat  and  talked  about  it, 
and  about  its  dear  inmates,  and  told  her  of  all  its  beauties, 
and  with  what  joy  she  would  be  met,  and  how  eager  they  all 
were  to  know  the  day  they  might  expect  her.  And  what 
great  preparations  good  old  Dinah  was  making  in  anticipation 
of  the  happy  arrival. 

And  here  for  the  present  we  must  leave  her,  and  let  the 
imagination  of  our  readers  follow  her  and  her  happy  parents, 
and  revel  with  them  in  that  earthly  bliss  which  God  so  often 
allows  to  hearts  where  true  affection  dwells. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Six  years  of  life  constitute  no  very  lonjy  period  in  the 
average  of  human  existence,  and  yet  it  is  long  enough  to 
make  many  changes  in  the  affairs  of  men.  It  has  made  Us 
mark  upon  some,  at  least,  of  those  whose  history  we  have 
been  narrating. 

A  vessel  from  China  had  been  announced  as  "  off  the 
Hook,"  and  Mr.  Blenharn's  office  was  quite  in  commotion  in 
consequence  of  the  very  unsettled  condition  into  which  the 
head  clerk  of  that  establishment  had  been  thrown  by  that 
announcement.  He  seemed  to  be  unable  to  attend  to  any 
one  thing  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  and  kept 
not  only  himself  but  the  chairs  and  books  and  papers  in  a 
constant  move. 

Mr.  Belden  was  just  then  alone.  The  elder  Mr.  Blenham, 
since  the  return  of  his  brother  from  China,  had  given  up  all 
interest  in  the  concern  ;  he  had  married,  and  retired  to  a 
handsome  seat  he  had  purchased,  not  many  miles  from  the 
home  of  Captain  Marston.  Of  course,  his  seat  in  the  office 
was  vacant. 

Mr.  Henry  Blenham  had  gone  on  the  Battery,  in  order  to 
obtain,  if  possible,  the  earliest  information  as  to  the  vessel 
said  to  be  below,  and  the  junior  clerks  had  left  for  dinner. 

Both  Mr.  Blenham  and  Mr.  Belden  had  been  on  the  look 
out  now  for  more  than  four  weeks  for  the  arrival  of  the  good 
ship  Huntress,  as  in  that  vessel-  Mr.  Henry  Thornton  was  ex 
pected  to  be  a  passenger.  His  health  had  failed  him,  and, 
although  the  physicians  at  Canton  had  ordered  his  immediate 
return  to  the  United  States  as  the  only  chance  he  could  have 
for  life,  he  had  refused  to  leave  his  post  until  his  principal 
could  be  informed  of  his  condition,  and  have  opportunity  to 
adopt  measures  whereby  he  could  be  relieved.  He  had  done 
well  for  his  employers,  and  great  success  had  attended  the 
concern  ever  since  the  management  of  business  there  had 
been  under  Henry's  care. 

Mr.  Blenham  had,  on  receiving  notice  of  the  ill-health  of 

82T 


228  TKTJE  TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

his  protdge,  written  a  very  decided  letter,  enjoining  him  to 
leave  instantly,  and  directing  him  as  to  the  persons  with 
whom  he  might  intrust  whatever  business  should  remain  un 
settled,  and  as  the  Huntress  was  th'e  first  vessel  expected 
after  that  letter  had  been  received  by  Henry,  his  friends  in 
New  York  had  good  reason  for  expecting  him  to  take  passage 
in  her. 

Mr.  Blenham  had  been  out  more  than  an  hour,  and  as  Mr. 
Belden  noticed  that,  on  entering  the  office,  he  looked  some 
what  disappointed,  he  exclaimed,  in  his  quick  way — 

"  Not  the  Huntress  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  Huntress  has  arrived,  but  no  passengers,  so  the 
pilot  reports,  who  has  just  come  up.  She  is  in  the  lower  bay 
yet." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?" 

"  I  am  fearful  he  has  not  been  able  to  come ;  we  shall  no 
doubt  have  letters,  though.  Where  are  the  boys  ?  One  of 
them  had  better  go  to  the  office." 

"  Charles  will  stop  as  he  comes  from  dinner-r— time  he  was 
here  now." 

In  a  few  moments  the  young  man  who  had  the  situation 
Henry  once  filled,  came  in,  and  handed  quite  a  package  to 
Mr.  Blenham. 

Mr.  Belden  could  not  retain  his  position  at  the  desk  under 
such  circumstances,  so,  leaving  his  stool,  he  took  a  stand  near 
to  the  side  of  Mr.  Blenham,  although  at  a  sufficient  distance 
to  be  respectful.  Mr.  Blenham  was  seated  at  his  own  desk, 
and  had  just  opened  a  letter ;  it  was  not  in  Henry's  hand 
writing. 

"Alive,  sir?"  Mr.  Belden  could  not  wait  until  the  letter 
was  perused. 

"  I  hope  so ;  but  I  think  from  the  tenor  of  this  letter  that 
he  has  been  much  worse  than  he  gave  us  reason  to  believe." 

"  Just  like  him  ;  knew  it  would  be  so  ;  obstinate,  very — 
set,  self-willed." 

"  It  appears  that  he  is  gone  to  England." 

"  Then  he's  a  dead  man  !  Sure  death  to  weak  lungs — 
damp,  foggy,  muggy,  cold  !" 

"  He  was  quite  low,  and  had  to  be  carried  on  board  the 
vessel.  Poor  fellow!  I  am  very  sorry  I  left  him  there  ;  but  he 
has  said  nothing  until  the  last  letter  he  wrote  about  his  health, 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         329 

nothing  that  led  me  to  believe  he  was  not  quite  well.  I  am 
very  sorry.'7 

"He"d  never  tell  until  he's  dying;  he'd  say  nothing  ailed 
him  as  he  was  taking  his  last  breath !  Stuffy,  willful,  too 
much  head.  He's  gone — dead  and  buried,  no  doubt !  He's" — 

Mr.  Belden  stopped  very  short,  and,  jumping  again  upon 
his  seat,  began  to  write  furiously. 

In  a  few  moments,  Mr.  Blenham  exclaimed — 

"  Letters  from  England.    What  vessel  has  arrived,  Charles  ?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  ship  Ann,  sir.  She  was  reported  below 
this  morning." 

Mr.  Belden  was  again  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Blenham. 

"  From  Heory,  sir  ?" 

"  Not  his  writing." 

"  Evart  Marston.     I  know  the  hand." 

It  was,  indeed,  from  Evart.  He  had  gone  to  Europe  about 
six  months  previous,  in  company  with  Captain  Marston  and 
his  two  daughters,  Louise  and  Caroline.  The  latter  young 
lady  not  being  in  good  health,  her  father  had  resolved  to  try 
the  effect  of  a  voyage  and  the  climate  of  France  for  a  short 
time. 

The  purport  of  the  letter  was,  u  that  Henry  had  arrived  at 
Liverpool ;  that  he  was  better  when  he  started  from  Wham- 
poa,  so  he  said." 

"  Don't  believe  it — always  said  so." 

Mr.  Blenham  had  become  accustomed  to  Mr.  Belden's 
manner,  so  he  read  on  without  heeding  the  interruption. 

"  But  he  is  very  feeble  ;  and  it  was  very  strange  how  they 
met  with  him/' 

"  Always  was  so ;  things  always  happening  strange  with 
him." 

" '  And  very  fortunate  that  he  arrived  the  day  before  we 
were  about  to  sail  for  New  York ;  he  would  have  been  alone 
among  strangers.  We  shall  now  remain  until  he  gets  a  little 
rested  from  his  long  voyage,  and  able  to  bear  the  run  across 
the  Atlantic.' 

"  We  have  reason  to  be  glad,  Mr.  Belden,  that  he  is  among 
friends." 

"  Always  stumbling  among  them ;  he'll  find  them  some 
how — middle  of  Africa  !" 

These  letters  explained  matters  so  far  as  to  account  for  the 


330  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST;   OE, 

disappointment  which  those  friends  experienced  at  not  seeing 
him  by  the  Huntress,  but  it  was  not  very  satisfactory  to 
know  that  he  was  so  much  reduced  as  not  to  be  able  to 
write. 

Some  weeks  elapsed  before  any  tidings  were  again  brought 
to  them.  In  the  meantime,  we  must  take  a  view  of  things 
beyond  the  Atlantic. 

It  was  apparently  very  accidental  that  Mr.  Marston  and  his. 
family  heard  of  his  arrival.  They  were  boarding  for  a  few 
days  at  an  American  hotel  in  Liverpool,  waiting  for  the 
"packet  day."  Evart  overheard  the  captain  of  an  East 
Indiaman,  who  had  just  arrived,  inquiring  of  some  of  the 
attendants  for  the  room  of  Mr.  Thornton,  and  at  the  same 
time  asking  if  they  knew  "  how  he  was  ?" 

The  name  attracted  the  attention  of  young  Marston,  and 
he  took  the  liberty  at  once  of  making  some  inquiries. 

He  found  "  that  Mr.  Thornton  was  an  American  gentleman 
from  China ;  that  he  had  sailed  for  Calcutta  in  an  English 
brig,  being  ordered  by  his  physicians  to  leave  at  once  on  account 
of  his  health;  and  as  no  vessel  was  to  sail  for  America  for 
some  weeks,  he  concluded  to  return  home  by  way  of  England. 
That  he  had  been  better  after  leaving  Calcutta,  but  for  the 
last  three  weeks  the  weather  had  been  very  boisterous,  which 
confined  him  to  the  cabin,  and  in  consequence  he  had  suffered 
much  from  sea-sickness;  that  he  was  a  fine  fellow;  always 
cheerful  at  the  worst  of  times,  and  seemed  to  fear  death  no 
more  than  he  would  a  trip  across  the  Channel." 

Evart  immediately  sent  up  his  card,  and  to  his  delight, 
which  however  was  mingled  with  both  astonishment  and  grief, 
was  soon  in  the  arms  of  his  friend. 

Henry  was  able  to  sit  up,  but  quite  feeble ;  he  had  altered 
much.  He  was  tall,  and  now  very  slender ;  his  complexion  a 
pale  yellow ;  his  hair  dark ;  his  eyes  bright  and  sparkling  as 
ever ;  the  aspect  of  his  countenance  manly ;  and  he  seemed 
rather  of  the  age  of  thirty-five  than  twenty-four. 

He  was  still  full  of  hope — his  weakness  he  attributed  en 
tirely  "  to  a  long  turn  of  sea-sickness."  He  coughed  considera 
bly  when  attempting  to  converse,  but  said  "  that  was  in  con 
sequence  of  a  slight  cold  he  had  taken  on  nearing  the  coast  of 
England."  He  would  be  better,  he  knew,  "  by  a  few  days' 
rest." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         331 

Evart  lost  no  time  in  communicating  the  intelligence  that 
so  many  of  his  friends  were  under  the  same  roof  with  him, 
and  very  soon  his  hand  was  grasped  warmly  by  his  old  friend 
Captain  Marston. 

The  captain  knew  how  important  it  was  to  have  him  hope 
ful  and  united  with  him  in  the  expectation  that  a  few  days 
would  change  matters  materially.  "  But"  said  he,  "  you  will 
not  be  able  to  go  with  us  in  this  packet ;  she  sails  to-morrow. 
We  will  wait  until  the  next  month.  Our  berths  are  taken, 
but  we  can  dispose  of  them,  as  there  are  applications  daily, 
and  all  are  engaged." 

To  this  Henry  tried  to  make  objections,  but  to  no  purpose ; 
so  the  matter  was  settled. 

Two  weeks  passed  and  Henry  had  in  some  measure  re 
cruited  ;  but  his  cough  had  assumed  a  more  serious  character ; 
the  climate  was  evidently  aggravating  his  malady,  and  at  the 
advice  of  physicians,  Captain  Marston  resolved  to  return  home 
by  way  of  the  West  Indies,  and  took  passage  for  them  all  for 
Bermuda. 

The  result  was  all  that  could  have  been  desired.  A  few 
days  after  leaving  the  coast  of  England  his  symptoms  modified, 
aud  very  soon  his  cough  had  left,  and  Lis  appetite  returned. 

His  strength  day  by  day  increased,  and  he  could  walk  the 
deck  an  hour  at  a  time  without  fatigue.  His  whole  appear 
ance,  too,  changed  for  the  better  ;  but  faint  traces  were  left  of 
the  boy  Henry.  There  was  now  a  richer  cast  to  the  whole 
expression  of  his  countenance.  Mild  still,  but  more  marked 
with  serious  thought.  Cares  had  been  upon  him  ;  business  of 
great  importance,  requiring  strict  attention  and  shrewd  dis 
cernment  ;  and  these  had  given  a  character  to  a  countenance 
perhaps  previously  too  strongly  marked  by  the  milder  traits. 

He  was  of  equal  stature  with  Captain  Marston,  and  as  they 
walked  the  deck  arm  in  arm,  it  could  not  but  be  noticed  how 
perfectly  they  agreed  in  height  and  form ;  for  although  Henry 
was  somewhat  slender  now,  it  was  manifest  that  the  loss  of 
flesh  alone  made  the  difference ;  the  outline  of  his  figure  was 
complete  in  its  manly  proportions.  Whether  Evart  felt  any 
chagrin  because  he  himself  had  stopped  so  soon  in  his  growth, 
we  cannot  say  ;  we  hope  not;  but  he  appeared  diminutive  by 
the  side  of  Henry.  His  form,  too,  by  no  means  imperfect, 
was  of  a  more  effeminate  cast ;  his  countenance  quite  agreea- 


332  TEUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OK, 

ble  and  perhaps  by  some  thought  handsome,  was  not,  however, 
marked  by  any  peculiar  expression  but  that  of  gentleness  and 
good  nature. 

We  mention  these  matters  not  because  of  their  real  conse 
quence,  but  only  for  the  reason  that  such  little  things  do  at 
times  have  an  effect  upon  the  minds  of  some,  quite  dispropor 
tionate  to  their  importance. 

We  shall  not  stop  to  portray  the  meeting  between  Henry 
and  the  two  sisters.  Caroline  he  had  never  seen  but  once, 
and  then  she  was  a  little  girl,  and  he  a  stranger  boy ;  and  it 
was  utterly  out  of  the  power  of  either  to  recall  anything  in 
the  appearance  of  the  other  that  reminded  them  of  their  former 
interview.  Caroline  was  a  pretty  young  lady,  not  quite  so 
tall  as  Louise,  who  had  attained  the  full  stature  of  her  mother. 
Her  hair  was  light,  her  eyes  a  dark  blue  ;  her  complexion  fair, 
much  fairer  than  that  of  Louise  ;  her  features  well  formed,  and 
her  manners  peculiarly  graceful ;  very  playful  in  her  feelings, 
and  often  trying  to  wake  up  her  sister  to  be  as  cheery  as 
herself. 

On  the  voyage,  Caroline  had  become  very  intimate  with 
Henry,  and  it  seemed  to  be  her  delight  to  get  from  him  a 
good  hearty  laugh.  "  She  knew,"  she  said,  "  it  was  good  for 
him  ;"  and  whispering  to  Louise,  "  I  like  to  see  him  laugh,  his 
countenance  brightens  up  so  beautifully.  He  is  very  hand 
some,  is  he  not  ?"  To  which  Louise  would  give  a  very  modified 
assent,  and  if  possible  immediately  turn  to  some  other  subject. 

One  evening — a  beautiful  moon-light  evening — Henry  had 
been  ordered  by  Captain  Marston  and  Caroline,  who  always 
united  with  her  father  in  urging  requirements  which  were  for 
his  good,  to  go  below,  as  he  had  been  long  enough  exposed  to 
the  night  air,  and  Henry  with  some  reluctance  had  obeyed, 
Evart  and  Caroline  were  walking  the  deck,  and  Louise  was 
seated  by  her  father  near  the  bulwarks  of  the  vessel  admiring 
the  beautiful  play  of  the  moonbeams  on  the  curling  waves, 
when  Captain  Marston  commenced  upon  a  subject  which  to 
him  had  now  become  quite  a  hobby. 

He  had  no  thought  whether  it  was  agreeable  or  not  to 
Louise.  Perhaps  he  felt  confident  that  after  what  had  passed, 
and  from  the  fact  that  Henry  had,  although  unconscious  of 
his  agency,  been  the  means  of  the  re-union  of  herself  and 
family,  he  must  be  an  object  of  interest  to  them  all ;  a  friend 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        333 

they  all  dearly  prized.  Beyond  that,  he  doubtless  thought 
not.  He  was  perfectly  ignorant  of  Henry's  former  feelings. 
Mrs.  Marston  had  kept  that  secret  to  herself,  and  no  one,  not 
even  her  mother,  had  ever  known  from  any  word  or  act  of 
Louise,  that  she  indulged  any  peculiar  feelings  towards  Henrv. 

Captain  Marstou  therefore  spoke  unreservedly,  and  as  lie 
would  had  Henry  been  a  brother  of  the  dear  girl  by  his  side ; 
but  his  mind  was  much  upon  him,  and  he  seemed  to  take  de 
light  in  letting  out  his  thoughts. 

"  It  is  very  strange,"  he  said,  "  but  from  the  first  time  I  saw 
Henry  I  took  a  fancy  to  him  ;  there  was  something  that  in 
terested  me.  He  was  so  prompt ;  his  countenance  had  such  an 
honest  expression ;  sad  at  times  ;  but,  poor  fellow,  he  had  reason 
for  that.  He  was  just  in  the  situation  one  might  be — cut 
adrift  on  this  mighty  waste  of  waters,  in  a  small  boat,  to  find 
his  way  to  land  as  best  he  could.  My  heart  ached  for  him, 
and  as  you  have  no  doubt  heard,  I  kept  him  some  days  to 
find  out  what  he  was  equal  to;  but  when  I  left  him  in  the 
stage  and  shook  his  hand,  and  saw  that  sad  expression  as  he 
said  good  bye,  I  felt  like  a  child,  and  was  on  the  point  of  jump 
ing  into  my  gig  and  riding  after  the  stage  to  bring  him  back 
again  to  our  home." 

Louise  had  not  heard  these  particulars  before.  She  wiped 
away  a  tear,  but  it  was  unnoticed  by  her  father. 

"  But  he  has  turned  out  as  I  expected.  He  has  made  his 
way  manfully.  Somehow  he  has  fallen  into  good  hands.  I 
have  been  talking  with  him  occasionally  about  his  situation 
in  China.  I  have  had  to  get  out  the  particulars  by  asking 
questions;  but  it  is  a  wonder  he  is  alive.  Blenham  knew 
nothing  for  a  long  while  of  his  being  unwell,  but  then  he  was 
at  the  head  of  their  concern.  (Blenharn  stayed  there  but  two 
years.)  Suffering  constant  pain, but  keeping  about;  purchas 
ing  cargoes ;  watching  the  Chinese  rogues,  and  attending  to 
all  the  minutia  of  their  business.  And  Blenham  has  told  me 
that  his  selections  of  cargoes  have  been  the  finest  they  ever  had. 

"  And  he  would  have  died  at  his  post  there,  before  he  would 
have  left  it,  until  the  house  could  take  some  steps  to  relieve 
him.  I  feel  proud  of  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  Blenham 
does.  He  will  have  a  hearty  welcome  when  he  gets  back,  if 
he  only  gets  his  health.  We  must  take  him  home  with  us, 
and  mamma  will  nurse  him.  What  a  lovely  night  it  is." 


334  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

This  last  remark  was  made  to  Evart  and  Caroline.  They 
had  come  up,  and  were  standing  a  moment,  the  latter  atten 
tively  listening  to  her  father's  remarks. 

"  Papa,  I  rather  think  sis  is  tired,  she  looks  so  very 
sober." 

Evart  cast  a  glance  at  Louise  as  Caroline  said  this.  It 
was  indeed  so  :  and  some  young  ladies  might  have  put  on  a 
pretty  smile,  as  an  assurance  that  the  opinion  was  not 
correct,  or  that  the  serious  look  was  not  caused  by  anything 
which  had  been  the  subject  of  conversation.  But  Louise 
made  no  attempt  whatever  to  counteract  any  impression  her 
appearance  at  the  time  might  have  made. 

"I  have  been  talking  about  Henry,  and  telling  Louise 
some  things  which,  perhaps,  she  has  not  heard." 

"  And  I  have  been  telling  Evart  how  surprised  I  have  been 
to  find  that  he  has  had  time  to  cultivate  his  mind  so  highly, 
in  the  midst  of  so  much  business." 

"  What  an  air  of  independence  he  has,  too.  It  must  be 
hard  to  do  it,  but  it  does  make  a  man  of  one  to  be  compelled 
to  work  his  own  way." 

"I  think,  sister  Carrie,"  said  Louise,  "that  depends  very 
much  upon  the  character  of  the  individual.  Hardships  in 
youth  affect  the  disposition,  and  sometimes  destroy  the  sensi 
bilities  ;  create  a  morose  temper ;  and  if  the  individual 
should  prosper,  he  would  be  very  overbearing  and  opiniona 
ted.  Do  you  not  think  so,  papa  ?" 

"  I  think  it  is  high  time  you  pusses  turned  in ;  here  it  is 
ten  o'clock." 

Evart  had  not  for  the  past  few  days  been  happy  ;  his  mind 
was  evidently  laboring  under  some  unpleasant  feelings.  He 
had  been  rallied  about  his  demureness,  and  pleasantly  chidden 
by  his  sprightly  cousin  Caroline  for  some  short  answers  he 
had  given  her,  all  which  at  the  time  he  had  endeavored  to 
smooth  over  and  apologize  for.  But  there  was  something 
wrong  working  within  ;  he  was  not  the  open,  frank,  agree 
able  Evart ;  and  we  must  look  into  matters,  and  review  his 
history  a  little,  in  order  to  get  a  true  understanding  of  the 
difficulty. 

When  Louise  had  recovered  from  her  long  and  serious  ill- 
ness,  and  had  taken  her  place  at  the  paternal  home,  Evart 
continued  the  same  attention  which  he  had  paid  to  her  when  at 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         335 

Mr.  Vernon's,  with  this  exception,  that  he  could  only  make 
occasional  visits. 

Louise  always  received  him  kindly,  but  without  any  suspi 
cion  that  these  visits  were  intended  especially  for  her.  She 
acted  without  reserve  ;  was  ever  ready  to  take  his  arm  for  an 
evening  or  morning  walk,  and  treated  him  with  the  same 
familiarity  she  might  have  exercised  towards  a  brother. 

At  each  interview  Evart  became  more  and  more  enamored, 
and  always  resolved,  after  his  return  to  the  city,  that  on  the 
next  opportunity  he  would  have  a  "  free  talk  "  with  Louise. 
His  courage,  however,  for  a  long  time  failed  him  at  the 
opportune  moment :  why  it  was,  he  could  not  tell,  but  there 
was  a  certain  demeanor  on  the  part  of  his  fair  cousin  that 
threw  a  damper  upon  his  spirits  whenever  he  had,  as  he 
thought,  mad"e  up  his  mind  to  bring  things  to  a  climax.  She 
was  very  kind  and  free  with  him,  but  he  could  not  lay  hold 
upon  any  particular  act  or  word  or  look  of  Louise  that 
assured  him  of  an  interest  in  her  heart. 

It  was,  however,  getting  to  be  a  serious  matter ;  Louise 
was  much  caressed ;  company  was  flocking  from  the  city  to 
his  uncle's ;  young  gentlemen — some  with  great  accomplish 
ments,  and  some  with  wealth  far  beyond  his — were  evidently 
paying  court  to  her.  Her  name  was  mentioned  in  almost 
every  circle  of  acquaintance  he  met  with,  and  he  felt  quite 
sure  that  most  of  the  extra  attention  paid  to  himself  was  on 
account  of  his  connection  with  the  beautiful  heiress,  Louise 
Lovelace  Marston ;  and  alarmed  lest  the  prize  should  be  car 
ried  off  by  some  more  adventurous  lover,  Evart  made  the 
desperate  effort,  and  laid  his  mind  open  to  his  much-loved 
cousin. 

Louise  knew  Evart  well :  she  knew  he  had  a  noble,  gene 
rous  heart :  she  knew,  also,  that  he  sought  not  her  hand  for 
the  attachments  connected  with  it;  he  was  not  anxious  to 
increase  his  wealth,  but  rather  solicitous  how  to  use  what  he 
had  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  it  a  blessing  to  himself  and 
others.  She  had  respect  for  him,  too,  as  a  young  man  who 
was  taking  a  noble  stand  on  the  side  of  right;  of  a  pure 
mind,  amiable  temper,  and  rapidly  improving  in  general 
knowledge.  She  almost  wished  she  could  give  her  heart  to 
him,  and  she  most  heartily  wished  he  would  have  been  con 
tent  with  such  affection  as  she  had  felt  and  manifested  ever 


336  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OR, 

since  their  relation  to  each  other  had  been  known.  She  felt 
sad,  indeed,  while  she  listened  to  the  story  he  had  to  tell,  but 
honesty  demanded  of  her  at  once  a  clear  and  definite  reply. 
She  made  it  frankly,  but  with  much  delicacy  and  tenderness : 
she  had  to  deny  his  suit,  but  it  was  done  in  her  own  sincere, 
ingenuous,  fearless  way. 

Evart  was  disappointed ;  but  he  parted  from  his  cousin 
loving  her  more  than  ever,  and  fully  assured  that  his  declara 
tion  as  ja,  lover  had  not,  and  would  not,  cast  a  shadow  on 
their  future  intimacy. 

The  answer  that  Louise  gave  was  accompanied  with,  per 
haps,  more  in  the  way  of  explanation  than  is  customary  on 
such  occasions ;  and,  although  Evart  could  not  comprehend 
all  her  meaning,  he  obtained  an  impression  from  it,  "  that 
she  was  not  quite  free  to  enter  in  any  such  engagement,  that 
her  mind  was  in  an  unsettled  state,  and  that  she  thought 
herself  too  young  to  trust  for  life  the  emotions  she  then 
had." 

But  the  more  he  thought  afterwards  of  the  answer  she  had 
given  him,  the  more  difficult  it  became  for  his  mind  to 
decide  as  to  the  true  nature  of  her  reasons.  He,  however, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  among  her  suitors  there  was  one 
she  preferred  to  all  others,  and,  although  she  might  not  be 
willing  to  risk  the  happiness  of  her  whole  life  upon  the 
strength  of  her  feelings  towards  him,  yet  they  were  too 
powerful  to  allow  of  any  competitor. 

Thus  were  matters  when  Evart  became  of  age,  and,  of 
course,  master  of  his  own  fortune. 

He  had  retained  his  situation  at  the  Messrs.  Blenham's 
until  some  time  after  the  return  of  the  junior  partner  from 
China ;  he  had  applied  himself  faithfully  to  the  details  of 
business,  much  to  the  comfort  and  pride  of  Mr.  Belden,  who 
had  ventured  to  engage  him  on  his  own  responsibility. 

But,  coming  of  age,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  devote  his 
attention  to  his  own  affairs,  and,  although  on  very  intimate 
terms  with  Messrs.  Blenharn,  he  was  obliged  to  withdraw 
from  their  service  as  a  clerk. 

Evart  had  held  on  his  way  ;  the  great  change  which  he 
made  in  his  course  of  life  proved  to  be  no  sudden  freak  of 
feeling.  A  new  set  of  friends  surrounded  him  ;  men  of  busi 
ness  welcomed  him  among  them,  and  men  whose  energies 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         337 

were  directed  to  benevolent  objects  rejoiced  to  find  him  ever 
ready  to  cooperate  with  them. 

His  old  associates  always  received  his  courteous  bow  when 
ever  they  met,  but  nothing  further.  Some  of  them  were 
drooping  under  premature  decay,  their  powers  of  body  yield 
ing  to  disease,  and  their  minds  debilitated  from  the  mere 
want  of  some  object  of  pursuit,  helpless  victims  of  their  own 
folly ;  their  feet  were  treading  that  desolate  path  which  leads 
to  an  untimely  grave. 

Joe  Foster  had  wasted  his  own  inheritance,  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  society  to  which  he  was  accustomed,  for 
having  been  detected  in  trickery  at  the  gambling-table,  and 
had  been  sent  abroad  by  his  father,  in  order  to  save  his  rela 
tions  from  the  scandal  of  his  presence  in  the  city. 

The  great  trial  of  Evart  was  occasioned  by  the  fact,  that  in 
spite  of  all  his  remonstrances  and  persuasions,  his  sister  had 
engaged  herself  to  Sam  Lovell.  But  Evart  resolved  that  since 
it  must  be,  no  effort  should  be  wanting  on  his  part  to  gain 
the  confidence  of  his  future  brother.  Something  might  be 
done  he  hoped  by  kindness  and  attention,  to  win  Tom  from 
the  way  of  evil ;  he  was  not  yet,  apparently,  beyond  recovery  ; 
and  was  very  fond  of  Evart. 

As  Evart  had  determined  upon  a  voyage  to  Europe,  the 
proposition  which  his  uncle  made  that  he  should  be  one  of  their 
party,  met  with  his  joyful  assent.  To  be  thus  isolated  with 
his  fair  cousin,  at  once  raised  his  hopes.  "  She  would  be  away 
from  all  suitors;  dependent  much  upon  his  attention."  At 
least  it  would  be  great  happiness  for  him  to  be  so  constantly 
in  her  society. 

Evart's  hopes  were  not  as  bright  now  as  when  he  left  New 
York.  An  element  of  trouble  has  made  a  lodgment  in  his 
hitherto  unruffled  mind,  and  that  from  a  cause  most  unexpected. 

That  Henry  or  Louise  had  any  peculiar  regard  for  each 
other,  Evart  never  suspected.  Henry  had  kept  all  his  thoughts 
and  feelings  on  that  subject  within  his  own  breast,  and  Louise 
had  never,  by  word  or  sign,  that  Evart  had  noticed,  during 
Henry's  long  absence,  given  the  least  token  that  she  regarded 
him  with  any  interest  such  as  her  parents  manifested. 

But  some  combined  trifles  have,  since  Henry's  recent  intro 
duction  to  their  circle,  awakened  in  the  mind  of  Evart  a  new 
view  of  things.  There  was  something  in  the  conduct  and 

15 


338  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST;   OK, 

appearance  of  Louise  at  the  time  when  be  announced  the 
arrival  of  Henry  at  Liverpool,  and  the  fact  of  his  being  so 
unwell,  that  surprised  Evart.  It  was  a  momentary  ebullition 
of  feeling,  and  it  passed  off  quickly,  but  it  was  a  stranger  mani 
festation  of  deep  concern  than  he  had  ever  witnessed  in  Louise 
on  any  previous  occasion. 

There  had  also  been  since  then,  and  more  especially  on 
board  ship,  little  events  taking  place.  "  Perhaps  he  caught 
her  eye  fixed  with  peculiar  gaze  at  Henry,  as  he  and  Henry 
might  be  walking  or  seated  together."  Sometimes  an  emotion 
manifested,  when  "  suddenly  his  name  was  mentioned,"  and  a 
restlessness  if  he  should  happen  for  a  time  to  be  the  subject 
of  conversation. 

The  idea  having  once  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  many 
things  in  the  past,  unthought  of  before,  came  to  remembrance, 
and  very  many  little  occurrences  which  he  now  daily  witnessed, 
seemed  all  to  point  clearly  to  the  fact  that  Louise  was  more 
deeply  interested  in  Henry  than  she  wished  should  be  known, 
or  that  any  one  besides  himself  in  the  least  suspected. 

"  Could  it  be  that  Henry  was  his  rival  ?"  The  very  suspicion 
seemed  to  bring  at  once  the  shadow  of  a  dark  cloud  over 
their  friendship.  "  And  if  it  should  be  so,  his  own  case  was 
hopeless !" 

He  knew  that  by  the  side  of  Henry  he  was  at  a  disadvan 
tage.  In  personal  appearance,  in  that  charm  which  attaches 
to  one  who  has  battled  with  the  world,  who  has  struggled  in 
the  bitter  contest  and  come  off  in  triumph ;  who  can  recount 
soul-stirring  adventures,  or  scenes  of^evere  trial  or  imminent 
peril ;  who  has  encountered  alone  the  stern  vicissitudes  and 
done  the  real  work  of  life ! 

Evart  had  heard  the  terms  of  high  admiration  in  which 
Henry  had  been  spoken  of  before  Louise,  and  he  had  noticed, 
or  thought  he  did,  a  richer  flush  upon  her  cheek.  Alas  !  for 
poor  human  nature ;  even  sacred  friendship  is  not  safe  when 
our  self-interest  is  in  danger ! 

We  will  not  pursue  the  theme — it  pains  our  heart  to  write 
for  human  eye  to  read  the  hateful  fact,  but  it  must  be  done. 
Evart,  the  generous,  loving,  devoted  friend,  is  turning  a  cold 
eye  upon  him  who  has  been  so  long  cherished  in  his  heart. 
And  a  host  of  evil  feelings  are  starting  up ;  and  as  they  awake 
to  strength,  the  purer,  nobler  emotions  slip  away;  reason  loses 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         339 

her  power;  she  no  longer  controls  his  mind.  All  Henry's 
fine  qualities  are  forgotten ;  all  that  is  engaging  in  his  man 
ners  or  his  mind,  only  makes  him  more  dangerous.  Evart 
wishes  he  could  avoid  his  presence — he  wishes  he  was  on  land, 
J,o  have  more  space,  to  get  beyond  an  influence  that  only  goads 
him  on  from  one  unhappy  state  of  mind  to  another  ! 

These  feelings  had  attained  their  greatest  strength  on  the 
Saturday  evening  previous  to  their  arrival  at  Bermuda.  All 
were  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  a  speedy  sight  of  green  fields 
and  a  rest  from  the  turmoils  of  the  sea — for  the  captain  had 
informed  them  that  if  the  weather  should  continue  favor 
able  as  it  then  was,  he  hoped  to  be  in  harbor  on  the  mor 
row. 

The  young  ladies  were  seated  beside  their  father  and  near 
to  Henry,  and  a  very  lively  strain  of  conversation  had  been 
kept  up  for  some  time  ;  when  Louise  made  a  remark  upon  the 
absence  of  Evart,  and  Caroline  replied, 

"  He  seems  to  be  enjoying  his  own  thoughts  all  alone  by 
himself." 

"  I  fear,"  said  Louise,  "  that  Evart  is  not  well.  I  have  noticed 
for  this  day  or  two  that  he  appears  dull,  and  disposed  to  keep 
by  himself." 

Henry  immediately  arose  and  walked  towards  the  bow  of 
the  vessel,  where  Evart  was  seated,  and  putting  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder  stooped  and  said, 

"  Why  so  alone  ?" 

"  Better  alone  than  to  be  where  your  company  is  not 
agreeable." 

The  answer  was  so  surprising  to  Henry,  that  for  a  moment 
he  knew  not  what  to  say,  and  stood  silently  looking  at  his 
friend. 

"  I  cannot  comprehend  your  meaning,  Evart !  Have  I  done 
aught  that  has  given  you  offence  ?  Tell  me,  dear  Evart !" 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now." 

•'  Why  not  now  ?  This  moment !  Evart,  I  am  innocent  as 
the  babe  unborn,  of  any  thought  that  could  injure  or  pain 
your  feelings  !  There  must  be  some  great  misunderstanding 
— believe  me !  I  could  wish  you  knew  every  thought  or  feel 
ing  I  have  in  reference  to  you !" 

Evart  felt  the  flush  of  shame  that  was  tinging  his  own  cheek. 
Already  he  began  to  relent.  Henry's  kind  voice — his  earnest 


340  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;    OB, 

expressions — his  troubled  look — told  upon  the  heart  that  had 
so  long  been  purely  his. 

"I  cannot  explain  now,  Henry  ;  we  must  be  alone.  It  will 
take  some  time;  perhaps  I  arn  wrong  ;  I  have  been  unhappy; 
miserable.  When  we  get  to  land  you  shall  know  all."  . 

"And  would  you  keep  me  in  suspense  and  misery  so  long? 
We  are  now  alone,  Evart — I  cannot  return  to  the  society  of 
your  relations  under  present  circumstances !  If  I  am  to  be  a 
stranger  to  you,  I  must  be  so  to  them.  If  I  am  not  worthy 
of  your  friendship  I  surely  will  not  court  theirs !" 

There  was  a  terrible  struggle  in  the  heart  of  Evart,  but  the 
most  disturbing  element  was  shame ! 

He  had  allowed  unhallowed  passions  to  gain  the  ascend 
ency  ;  he  began  to  see  his  folly  ;  his  want  of  manliness ;  his 
want  of  Christian  charity.  He  felt  that  he  had  allowed  the 
natural  man  to  triumph  ;  he  was  mortified  and  humbled.  A 
few  moments  he  sat  writhing  under  the  stings  of  conscience. 
At  length  he  said, 

"  Sit  down  by  me,  Henry ;  I  have  been  very  unhappy,  and  I 
now  feel  that  it  has  been  all  my  own  fault.  I  could  wish 
everything  I  have  said  might  be  forgotten,  and  that  I  might 
have  your  confidence  without  being  compelled  to  make  an 
explanation.  But  as  this  has  been  the  first  shadow  upon  our 
friendship,  at  least  in  my  heart,  and  as  I  feel  that  our  rela 
tion  to  each  other  is  too  sacred  to  be  subject  to  such  disturb 
ances,  I  shall  unburden  my  mind  to  you. 

"  You  must  pity  and  forgive ;  but  never — never  again  shall 
a  feeling  possess  my  breast  that  shall  be  hidden  from  you ;  sit 
down." 

It  was  a  severe  ordeal,  but  Evart  had  resolution  enough 
and  candor  enough  to  lay  open  to  his  friend  the  whole  matter. 
It  was  indeed  an  act  of  penance — but  he  knew  with  whom 
he  was  dealing,  and  when  he  closed,  the  warm  grasp  of  Henry's 
hand  assured  him  that  not  a  spot  remained  to  sully  their  honest 
and  pure  feelings  towards  each  other. 

"  You  have  been  open  and  generous  with  me,  Evart,  and 
now  my  heart  tells  me  that  your  candor  demands  from  me  a 
clearing  up  of  whatever  obscurity  may  rest  upon  the  free 
knowledge  of  each  other's  feelings,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned. 
I  must  now  tell  you  my  story." 

And  with  as  much  sincerity  as  if  he  had  been  unveiling  his 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        341 

heart  for  his  own  inspection,  he  brought  to  the  ear  of  his 
friend  all  he  had  ever  felt  and  all  he  had  suffered  from  the 
same  cause,  and  then  closed  with  saying — 

"  I  have  long  looked  upon  Louise  as  yours,  and  what  you 
have  told  me  fills  me  with  surprise.  You  think,  then,  she  is 
really  engaged  ?" 

"  I  feel  very  sure  that  her  affections  are ;  and  I  am  con 
vinced  that  Louise  has  but  one  heart  to  give :  she  has  ardent 
feelings,  under  strong  control.  On  whom  her  heart  rests,  I 
know  not;  she  has  been  surrounded  by  admirers.  I  know 
some  of  them  to  be  fine  fellows,  men  of  superior  attainments, 
with  whom  I  cannot  pretend  to  compete.  But  let  that  go — 
the  storm  is  over,  I  am  at  rest  now  !  Yes,  Henry,  I  believe 
I  should  rejoice  to  know  that  Louise  loves  you ;  I  am  sure  I 
should.  I  believe  you  to  be  worthy  of  her." 

"  I  have  told  you,  Evart,  the  whole  truth ;  1  can  never 
now  aspire  to  her  hand ;  our  positions  in  life  are  too  dissimilar. 
Louise  Marston  is  a  very  different  person  from  Louise  Love 
lace.  No,  Evart,  all  I  shall  think  of  is  a  place  in  her  kind 
regards.  She  has  a  noble  heart,  and  I  hope  may  yield  it 
only  to  one  who  may  be  worthy  of  such  a  treasure. 

"  I  thank  you,  Evart,  for  the  test  you  have  given  me  of 
your  sincere  affection.  Hereafter  let  the  bond  which  unites 
us  be  more  strong  and  sacred  than  ever.  I  feel  it  will  be  so, 
that  is,  if  the  most  perfect  confidence  on  my  part,  and  the 
most  open  expression  of  every  feeling  of  my  heart  to  you  can 
make  it  so. 

"  And  now,  come,  put  on  a  cheerful  face,  and  let  us  join 
our  friends ;  they  will  wonder  at  our  long  conference,  and 
perhaps  be  rallying  us  for  want  of  courtesy." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  THERE  is  Belden  !     Look,  Henry." 

"  I  see  him.     Do  you  suppose  he  is  expecting  us  ?" 

"  He  is  expecting  some  one.  How  restless  he  is  ;  he  can 
not  keep  in  one  position  for  a  minute  at  a  time ;  his  hat  is 
oft" — he  sees  me." 

And  Evart  immediately  raised  his  hat  and  waved  it  gently, 
when  the  gentleman  who  has  been  already  named,  and  who 
was  standing  on  the  wharf  awaiting  the  slow  approach  of  the 
brig  to  her  moorings,  at  once  commenced  whirling  his  hat 
round  his  head  at  a  furious  rate,  apparently  unconscious  that 
any  spectators  were  about  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  will  recognize  me  ?" 

"  I  think  so  ;  but  he  does  not  yet,  for  he  is  looking  wildly 
over  the  brig." 

Mr.  Belden  and  Mr.  Blenham  having  heard  that  the  brig 
Boxer,  from  Bermuda,  was  coming  up  the  Bay,  had  both  hur 
ried  to  her  landing-place,  in  expectation  of  meeting  their 
friends :  the  former  gentleman,  however,  was  the  only  one  of 
the  two  they  had  distinguished  among  the  crowd. 

Henry  raised  his  hand ;  the  vessel  was  now  but  a  few  rods 
from  the  wharf.  Mr.  Belden  paused,  gave  one  earnest  look, 
put  up  both  hands,  clapped  them  together,  jumped  into  the 
brig's  boat  that  was  just  returning  after  having  carried  the 
end  of  a  hawser  to  the  dock,  and  in  a  few  minutes,  with 
the  agility  of  a  sailor,  was  up  the  main  chains  and  on  the 
deck. 

Evart  was  the  first  to  meet  him,  for  Henry's  movements 
had  yet  of  necessity  to  be  moderate.  He  was  gaining 
strength — he  had  gained  much  already — but  there  was  still 
need  of  care. 

Evart  returned  a  hearty  shake  with  both  hands — not  a 
word  was  spoken.  Belden's  eye  was  on  Henry ;  he  had  to 
look  up  to  him  now  ;  it  was  not  the  Henry  he  had  parted 
with  six  years  ago,  but  the  old  smile  he  remembered. 
Silently  they  pressed  each  other's  hands,  as  they  had  done 

843 


TEUE  TO  THE  LAST.  34:3 

when  they  parted  ;  neither  could  have  spoken  if  they  had 
thus  wished  to  express  their  feelings.  But  words  were  not 
needed  ;  each  felt  the  happiness  of  the  moment  Mr.  Belden, 
however,  had  some  painful  anxiety  mingled  with  his  joy ;  he 
did  not  intend  to  show  it,  and  when  he  did  begin  to  utter 
words,  they  were  encouraging  and  hopeful,  at  least  designed 
to  be  so." 

"  Glad,  glad,  glad  you've  got  here !  Native  air  soon  set 
things  right.  You  haven't  eaten,  I  suppose  ?  Sea-sick ; 
great  preparations  at  home ;  dinner  all  ready ;  been  looking- 
out  these  two  hours  ;  brig  moves  slow.  Here,  take  my  arm  ; 
walk  slowly,  no  hurry  now ;  carriage  ready.  Pah !  bilge 
water!  Don't  wonder  you  look  so." 

"  Henry  Thornton,  my  good  fellow,  how  are  you  ?" 

Mr.  Belden,  as  Henry  removed  his  arm  to  give  his  hand 
to  Mr.  Blenham,  who  had  just  come  on  board,  immediately 
caught  it  again,  and  appeared  to  be  very  anxiously  endeavor 
ing  to  hold  him  up ;  he  felt  that  Henry  needed  support. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  in  reply  to  Mr.  Blenham's  salutations,  "  I  am 
better,  much  better ;  I  begin  to  feel  quite  strong." 

Mr.  Belden  winked  to  Evart,  who  with  Captain  Marston 
and  the  ladies  was  shaking  hands  with  Mr.  Blenham. 

"That's  the  old  tune — he  is  always  better  ;  he  will  say  so 
when  there  aint  but  two  breaths  left.  You  take  the  other 
arm,  and  we  will  help  him  along — softly !" 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  really  better,  Mr.  Belden ;  he  is  quite 
strong  to  what  he  has  been." 

"  Any  appetite  f 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite  good." 

"  Don't  look  so.  Dinner  all  ready — roast  beef,  fish,  lob 
sters,  port  wine,  Madeira,  London  porter,  all  on  hand.  Pah! 
bilge  water !  let  us  get  ashore  quick  as  possible ;  a  plank,  he 
cannot  jump  down  the  brig's  side." 

All  this  was  said  in  a  half  whisper  to  Evart,  while  Henry 
was  busily  engaged  in  answering  questions  from  his  friend 
Blenham,  and  appealing  to  Captain  Marston  for  confirmation 
of  what  he  said,  "  that  he  was  much  better." 

"•  Yes,  he  is  better,  Blenham  ;  but  we  must  still  have  a 
care  of  him.  You  will  probably  wish  to  be  together  for  a 
few  days,  but  as  soon  as  he  can  be  spared,  I  must  insist  upon 
his  coming  up  to  our  place  in  the  country  ;  Mrs.  Marston  will 


34:4  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST;   OR, 

nurse  him,  and  our  air  will  brace  him  up;  he  wants 
rest." 

"  And  he  shall  have  it ;  but  you  will  all  go  home  with 
me.  We  heard  of  your  arrival  at  the  Hook  this  morning, 
and  Belden,  who  is  my  purveyor,  has  ordered  a  little  of 
everything,  I  believe.  You  will  all  come  ?" 

It  was  decided,  however,  that  Captain  Marston  and  Evart 
would  be  there,  the  ladies  preferring  to  remain  at  their  aunt's. 

It  was  some  weeks  before  Henry  could  make  up  his  mind 
to  leave  for  the  country ;  and,  in  fact,  he  gained  so  rapidly 
that  he  began  to  think  any  such  change  would  not  be  neces 
sary  ;  but,  as  he  had  promised  to  go,  and  as  Mr.  Blenham 
insisted  upon  it,  he  himself  engaging  to  follow  him  there  in 
a  few  days,  Mr.  Blenham  seeming,  for  some  reason,  quite 
willing  to  go  there.  Henry  yielded  to  the  request. 

Evart  was  to  accompany  Henry,  and  to  take  his  own  horse 
and  gig,  and  they  were  to  visit  the  old  mill  at  Maple  Cove, 
and  the  spot  where  they  two  first  met.  Much  pleasure  was 
anticipated,  especially  by  Evart :  to  Henry  the  journey 
offered,  indeed,  some  qualifying  prospects,  but  he  almost 
dreaded  to  revisit  places  where  past  scenes  would  be  vividly 
recalled. 

As  Evart  and  Henry  were  seated  in  the  gig  and  about  to 
start,  Mr.  Belden  just  held  on  to  them  a  moment — he  had 
some  last  words  to  say. 

"  You  promise  me,  now,  you  will  just  stop  at  the  old 
homestead,  and  see  how  they  look  up  there,  and  tell  the 
folks  who  you  are,  you  know.  Stone  house,  large  trees,  in 
sight  of  the  mill ;  brook  runs  by  the  door.  And  tell  them, 
you  know,  all  hearty  here ;  chirp,  doing  well ;  be  there, 
course  of  the  summer." 

"  Then  you  have  let  out  your  house,  Mr.  Belden  T' 

"No,  not  exactly ;  no  matter  how  it  is;  you  see,  I've  told 
you  all  about  it,  haven't  I  ?" 

"  You  have  told  me,"  said  Henry,  "  that  you  have  paid  your 
mortgage  off,  and  I  was  heartily  rejoiced  to  hear  it." 

"  No  doubt  of  that.     Yes,  thanks  to  you,  she's  clear  now." 

"  Not  to  me,  Mr.  Belden." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir.  I  say  to  you  in  the  first  place, 
for,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  your  getting  me  here,  when  would 
it  have  been  done?" 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         345 

"  But,  you  see,  it's  all  paid,  and  I've  been  up  there  and 
walked  all  about  it  and  across  it  every  which  way,  and  shook 
hands  with  the  old  trees,  or  shook  the  branches,  which  is  the 
same  thing.  '  You  are  mine  now,'  says  I,  '  old  fellows ;  we'll 
stick  together,  I  guess,  after  this ;  nobody  shall  have  a  right 
to  claim  you  while  Joe  Belden  stands  on  his  legs  above 
ground.'  There,  that's  all !" 

"  But  about  the  people  in  the  house,  Mr.  Belden  ?" 

"  People  !  there's  only  two  of  them — clever  folks.  You 
see,  the  old  lady  is  an  old  acquaintance,  that's  all." 

"  But  you  have  only  described  one  ;  you  spoke  of  two." 

"  Two  !  so  there  are.  You  see,  I  found  the  house  wanted 
care — rats,  spiders,  ants,  mice  and  mildew  playing  old  hog  ; 
cleaned  her  out,  painted,  papered,  whitewashed',  all  snug. 

"  Some  friends  had  back  luck  ;  husband  dies,  father  dies, 
widow  alone,  daughter  alone — clever,  very  ;  wanted  a  home  ; 
put  them  in  to  keep  the  rats  out,  and  kill  the  spiders,  and  air 
the  house.  You  may  laugh,  boys ;  it  does  me  good  to  see 
that  fellow  laugh.  I  thought  when  I  first  saw  him  on  the 
brig  the  old  pigtails  had  done  for  him. 

"  You  see,  I've  changed  my  mind  ;  begin  to  feel  lonesome, 
drat  it ! — I  don't  care  if  I  do  tell  you  two ;  won't  mention 
it?" 

"  Not  a  word,  Mr.  Belden." 

"  Upon  honor  ?" 

"  Upon  honor." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  am  getting  a  little  forehanded ;  world 
looks  brighter  ;  debts  all  paid;  heart  lighter — now  I  shan't ; 
you're  laughing  again  !" 

"  You  have  married,  Mr.  Belden  ?" 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  She's  young — wait  a  year  or  two,  no 
hurry  ;  can't  leave  yet.  But  just  make  a  call  there,  boys,  and 
see  how  you  like  things." 

And  giving  them  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand,  Mr.  Belden 
hastened  back  to  his  desk,  and  they  went  on  their  way. 

It  was  about  the  middle  of  the  day  when  they  left  the  city. 
Evart  did  not  drive  fast,  as  they  had  no  idea  of  reaching 
Glencove  that  night,  and  the  weather  was  warm ;  and  to 
wards  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  heavy  clouds  began  to 
gather  up  in  the  west,  giving  tokens  of  rain.  The  young 
men  were  too  busily  engaged  in  conversation  on  various  sub- 

15* 


346  TBTTE  TO  THE  LAST;   OB, 

jects  of  interest  to  pay  much  heed  to  what  was  going  on  in 
the  clouds,  and  it  was  not  until  a  severe  clap  of  thunder,  and 
a  roaring  of  wind  in  the  distance  obtruded  upon  their  notice, 
that  they  took  cognizance  of  the  fact  that  a  shower  was  very 
near  at  hand. 

The  horse  which  Evart  drove  was  a  great  favorite  with 
him,  and  although  he  had  travelled  moderately,  yet  the  beast, 
unaccustomed  to  the  road  of  late,  had  worked  himself  into  a 
complete  lather,  and  the  idea  at  once  occurred  to  his  master 
that  a  cold  water  bath  under  such  circumstances  was  not  de 
sirable,  if  it  could  be  avoided ;  and,  although  Henry  laughed 
at  the  notion,  yet  Evart  insisted  upon  it  if  a  shelter  was  to  be 
had,  he,  Henry,  must  not  be  exposed  to  the  storm. 

"  I  see,"  said  Evart,  "  that  cloud  is  coming  fast ;  we  shall 
not  reach  the  village,  drive  as  we  may.  Yonder  is  a  school- 
house,  and  there  is  a  wood  shed  attached  to  it,  under  which 
I  could  drive  Charlie.  What  do  you  say,  Henry  ?" 

"It  is  immaterial  to  me;  the  rain  will  not  hurt  us,  but  if 
you  wish  to  shelter  your  horse,  perhaps  you  had  better  drive 
up  ;  you  must  be  quick  though." 

In  a  moment  more  they  were  at  the  door,  and,  as  Evart 
jumped  out  and  entered  the  room,  a  young  lady  approached, 
neatly  dressed,  and  saluted  him  in  such  an  easy,  agreeable 
manner  as  at  once  surprised  and  pleased  him. 

"  I  hope,  miss,  you  will  excuse  this  intrusion.  I  came  in 
to  ask  the  favor  of  a  shelter,  as  my  friend,  who  is  in  company 
with  me,  is  not  quite  well  enough  to  be  exposed  to  the 
storm." 

"  No  intrusion,  I  assure  you,  sir ;  both  myself  and  scholars 
will  be  delighted  to  have  a  little  company.  It  looks  very 
threatening.  You  will  be  able  to  drive  your  horse  under  the 
shed,  I  think,  even  if  you  cannot  get  your  gig  under." 

And  she  smiled  so  sweetly  as  she  said  this,  and  her  appear 
ance  and  manner  were  so  different  from  what  he  had  expected 
in  a  "  country  school  madam"  that  for  the  moment  he  seemed 
to  forget  about  his  friend,  and  his  horse,  and  the  storm,  too. 

A  sudden  clap  of  thunder,  however,  started  him  out  of  his 
reverie — he  sprang  to  the  door. 

"  Quick,  Henry,  it  is  on  us." 

Henry  alighted,  and,  walking  in,  was  met  and  welcomed 
by  the  lady.  He  bowed  in  his  best  manner,  and  fixed  his 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        347 

eye  with  great  earnestness  upon  her.  Just  then  some  of  the 
children  becoming  alarmed,  as  a  cloud  of  dust  was  sweeping 
towards  the  building,  and  the  trees  began  to  bend  under  the 
furious  blast,  ran  up  to  their  teacher,  exclaiming — 

"  Oh,  Miss  Thompson,  Miss  Thompson  !  what  shall  we  do  ?" 

Henry,  with  his  pleasant  smile  and  cheering  words,  se 
conded  the  lady's  attempts  to  quiet  their  fears,  and  soon  they 
smiled  in  return,  and  many  of  them  took  their  seats,  saying, 
"  they  were  not  afraid,''  while  a  few  clung  closely  to  their 
teacher,  as  though  their  safety  was  insured  while  near  to  her, 
and  one  or  two  took  the  hands  of  the  stranger  gentleman, 
who  had  happened  in  so  opportunely. 

Amid  the  confusion,  however,  Henry  could  not  keep  his 
eye  from  the  lady,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  stepped  up  to 
her. 

"  Am  I  mistaken,  or  is  this  not  Miss  Emma  Thompson  ?" 

"My  name  is  Emma,  sir." 

A  slight  flush  spread  over  her  face  as  the  lady  made  this 
reply. 

"  From  Stratton  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  am  a  daughter  of  the  late  Esquire  Thompson, 
of  Stratton." 

"  And  you  once  knew  Henry  Thornton  ?" 

"  Oh,  certainly — but^  can  it  be  t" 

A  tide  of  recollections  seemed  at  once  to  flow  into  her 
mind ;  her  countenance  assumed  a  very  serious  cast,  and 
tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

Henry  put  out  his  hand,  which  she  took,  saying,  with 
much  emotion — 

"'Time  makes  great  changes." 

Before  Henry  could  reply,  Evart  entered,  and  seemed 
much  astonished  at  witnessing  the  two  strangers  thus  em 
bracing,  and  especially  at  beholding  the  emotion  of  the  lady. 

"  Allow  me,  Miss  Thompson,  to  introduce  you  to  my 
friend,  Mr.  Evart  Marston." 

Evart  was  very  particular  in  making  his  obeisance  to  the 
lady,  more  so  than  usual ;  and  Henry  noticed  that  Evart  had 
more  color  on  the  occasion  than  was  natural  to  one  so  accus 
tomed  to  the  society  of  ladies. 

The  storm,  although  violent  at  its  outbreak,  was  of  short 
duration  ;  long  before  all  the  questions  could  be  put  and  an- 


3  1:8  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST  ;   OE, 

swered  between  Miss  Emma  and  Henry.  He  learned  that 
her  father  had  died  about  two  years  since,  and  also  some  few 
items  of  news  concerning  persons  in  Stratton. 

As  the  sun  came  out,  and  the  scholars  were  preparing  to 
leave,  Miss  Emma  arose,  and,  giving  her  hand  to  Henry — 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  see  you  at  my  board 
ing-house  this  evening,  unless  you  conclude  to  extend  your 
ride  beyond  our  place." 

Henry  looked  at  Evart  for  a  reply. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  latter,  very  promptly,  "  that  we  had 
better  not  extend  our  ride  beyond  the  village  ;  you  have  had 
exercise  enough  for  one  day." 

"  Just  as  you  say.  I  shall  be  very  happy,  then,  Miss 
Emma,  to  spend  some  time  with  you  this  evening." 

The  young  lady  then  began  to  give  some  directions 
whereby  he  could  find  her  place  of  residence,  when  Evart 
interposed. 

"  If  Miss  Thompson  will  accept  a  seat  in  my  carriage,  I 
shall  be  very  happy  to  drive  her  home,  and  that  will  be  a 
sure  way  of  teaching  me  the  locality,  and  then  I  can  escort 
you  there  after  supper.  I  presume  it  is  not  so  distant  but 
you  will  be  willing  to  wait  here  until  I  return  ?" 

Miss  Emma  was  about  to  make  some  objections,  but  Henry 
united  with  his  friend  in  advocating  the  arrangement,  and  in 
a  few  moments  Evart  was  assisting  the  young  schoolmistress 
to  mount  his  gig,  with  an  earnestness  of  manner  that  some 
what  surprised  Henry. 

"Well,"  said  Evart,  as  Henry  was  taking  his  seat  beside 
him  after  the  return  of  the  former  from  escorting  the  lady, 
"  we  are  always  learning  something.  I  have  had  my  views 
corrected  about  a  class  of  persons  which  I  have  been  brought 
up  to  look  down  upon — why,  she  is  a  perfect  lady  \'' 

"  Why  should  she  not  be'?" 

"  No  reason  that  I  know  of,  only  I  have  always  classed 
your  New  England  schoolmistresses  with  persons  who  have 
had  scarcely  any  advantages ;  good  scholars,  perhaps,  so  far 
as  they  have  gone,  but  without  accomplishments — in  fact, 
rather  awkward,  and  with  minds  a  little  blue." 

"  It  is  well,  then,  that  you  have  changed  your  opinion,  for, 
although  you  may  not  find  every  young  lady  from  the  land 
of  teachers,  who  may  be  in  a  district  school,  equal  :<>  \fiss 


ALONE   ON   A   WIDE,   WIDE   SEA.  349 

Thompson,  as  she  has  had  superior  advantages  both  at  home 
and  abroad,  yet  teaching  is  with  us  a  respectable  calling ;  no 
young  lady  who  feels  inclined  to  engage  in  it  has  any  idea 
that  she  degrades  herself  thereby,  no  matter  how  high  the 
standing  of  her  family." 

"  Would  it  be  proper  for  me  to  accompany  you  this  even 
ing  ?  she  gave  me  an  invitation." 

"  By  all  means :  that,  you  know,  was  the  basis  of  your 
proposition  in  offering  to  conduct  her  home,  that  you  might 
be  able  to  pilot  me  there." 

"  So  it  was ;  I  came  near  forgetting  that — in  fact,  it  did 
not  occur  to  me  once  on  the  way,  but  I  think  I  shall  be  able 
to  find  the  place." 

The  lady  had  certainly  awakened  the  curiosity  of  our 
young  friend,  and  on  their  way  to  the  town  and  during  supper, 
he  had  many  questions  to  ask  concerning  her,  some  of  which 
Henry  could  answer,  but  more  of  them  were  about  matters 
of  which  he  knew  nothing,  not  having  seen  or  heard  of  her 
or  her  family  for  more  than  six  years. 

The  evening  had  passed,  and  it  was  a  much  later  hour  than 
Henry  had  bejen  in  the  habit  of  keeping  for  some  time  past. 
Whether  Evart  had  spent  it  pleasantly,  he  knew  not;  he 
himself  had  heard  tidings  which  caused  him  to  be  absorbed 
in  deep  thought,  and  as  they  rode  home  the  silence  would 
not,  in  all  probability,  have  been  broken,  if  Evart  had  not 
first  spoke. 

"  Henry,  I  must  say  that  I  never  felt  so  before  in  my  life." 

At  once  alarmed,  as  well  as  greatly  surprised,  for  he  had 
not  before  received  the  least  intimation  that  his  friend  was 
not  in  perfect  health,  Henry  laid  his  hand  upon  Evart,  and 
asked,  in  an  earnest  manner — 

"  What  is  it,  Evart  ?     How  do  you  feel  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  have  misunderstood  me ;  I  am  well  enough  in 
body,  perfectly  well ;  but  I  never  felt  before  as  I  have  done 
this  evening,  and,  indeed,  ever  since  I  met  that  young  lady  in 
the  school-house." 

Henry  felt  disposed  to  smile  at  his  own  mistake,  and 
would  no  doubt  have  indulged  a  hearty  laugh,  had  he  not 
been  assured  by  Evart's  manner  that  he  was  in  no  merry 
mood, 

"  You  have  been  pleased  with  her  ?" 


350  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST  |    OB, 

"  More  than  that.  I  have  seen  many  ladies,  as  you  know ; 
many  much  more  beautiful — Louise  is  much  handsomer ;  I 
thought  I  loved  her,  and  so  I  did  and  do  now,  but  I  never 
was  in  company  with  one  who  has  taken  just  such  a  hold  ot 
my  heart.  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  but  so  it  is.  I  suppose 
you  will  think  me  very  susceptible,  and  given  to  change,  but 
I  tell  you  everything." 

"I  think  nothing  of  you,  Evart,  but  what  is  true  and 
honorable,  and,  as  you  know  my  views  of  such  matters,  you 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  attribute  your  present  feelings  to  a 
freak  of  fancy.  That  you  should  love  Emma  Thompson 
would  not  appear  very  strange  to  me,  who  believe  her  to  be 
most  worthy  of  the  love  of  so  pure  a  heart  as  yours.  That 
you  should  be  so  decided  in  your  feelings  from  so  short  an 
acquaintance,  is,  you  also  know,  in  perfect  accordance  with 
my  theory  about  such  matters.  I  must  tell  you,  also,  that 
she  has  risen  vastly  in  my  estimation  from  what  I  have 
learned  this  evening.  She  is  not  keeping  school,  as  I  at  first 
supposed,  merely  to  gratify  a  feeling  so  common  with  New 
England  ladies,  of  having  something  u»?eful  to  do ;  it  is 
earnest  work  with  her.  She  is  laboring  away  from  home  in 
order  to  help  support  those  who  are  dear  to  her,  and  not  so 
well  able  to  go  abroad  themselves." 

"  You  told  me  the  family  was  wealthy,  or  at  least  esteemed 
so  in  the  country." 

"  So  I  thought,  but  time  has  made  great  changes ;  her 
father  has  died,  his  affairs  were  much  involved  ;  they  are 
quite  reduced." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  No,  pardon  me,  Henry,  I  am  not 
glad  for  their  misfortunes,  but  what  a  pleasure  it  would  be, 
could  I  but  gain  her  heart,  to  be  able  to  lift  her  up  again — 
and  all  her  family  with  her,  I  should  rejoice  a  hundred  fold 
more  than  if  she  had  ever  so  much  money  at  her  command." 

"  I  know  you  would.  Well,  strange  things  occur ;  your 
meeting  was  certainly  a  very  unexpected  event,  your  mind 
had  not  been  prejudiced  by  anything  you  had  previously 
heard.  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  feelings,  she  is  certainly  a 
lovely  girl,  lovely  in  her  appearance,  and  much  more  so  in 
those  qualities  of  mind  and  heart  which,  after  all,  bind  us  so 
strongly.  I  must  go  to  Stratton  immediately,  that  is,  in  a 
dav  or  two ;  I  have  received,  through  Miss  Emma,  some  in- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         351 

formation  concerning  matters  there  in  which,  perhaps,  I  can 
be  of  great  service  to  her  family;  and  what  I  can  do  for  those 
who  befriended  me  in  my  boyhood,  as  they  did,  I  certainly 
will  do,  if  it  takes  all  I  am  worth." 

"  Henry,  let  me  have  a  hand  in  it !  Tell  me  all  about  it ; 
do,  now." 

"  No,  no,  Evart,  I  feel  that  I  owe  a  debt  which  belongs  to 
me  to  pay.  It  would  not  be  proper  under  present  circum 
stances,  it  would  look  too  much  like  attempting  to  purchase 
the  daughter's  hand,  and  might  prove  a  severe  trial  to  you 
and  Miss  Emma  too.  Personal  obligations  such  as  I  am 
under  to  that  family  cannot  be  thrown  off  upon  another. 

"  That  shower  which  drove  us  into  the  school-house  is  like 
to  prove,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  the  beginning  of  some  important 
events.  I  have  told  you  some  things  connected  with  my 
early  intimacy  in  that  family,  how  I  became  acquainted,  and 
how  kindly  I  was  always  treated,  but  I  feel  every  year  I  live 
and  witness  the  unfolding  of  providential  events,  more  and 
more  the  obligations  I  am  under  for  the  treatment  I  received 
there.  It  was  a  great  thing  for  me  to  be  admitted  into  a 
circle  where  all  was  harmony  and  love  and  refined  behavior. 
My  ambition  was  excited,  and  dreams  of  what  I  might 
accomplish  in  future  began  to  be  indulged,  a  higher  life  than 
that  which  was  manifested  in  my  own  home  was  unfolded, 
and  my  heart  began  to  pant  for  it.  There,  too,  I  began  to 
love  Louise,  and  although,  as  you  know,  I  have  given  up  all 
hope  in  reference  to  her,  yet  no  time  or  circumstances  will 
ever  tear  her  image  from  its  place  in  my  heart ;  she  must 
ever  be  my  Louise — the  young  angel  whose  radiance  cheered 
my  heart  when  every  circumstance  about  my  path  conspired 
to  make  the  way  dark  and  forbidding. 

"  I  would  not  part,  Evart,  with  some  scenes  in  my  days  of 
boyhood,  with  some  of  the  pleasant  dreams  which  then  en- 
chanted  me,  for  any  anticipated  happiness  now.  And  all  this 
and  much  more  I  owe  to  the  kindness  of  that  family." 

They  did  not  leave  the  place  very  early  the  next  morning, 
for  Evart  had  begged  the  privilege  of  conveying  Miss  Thomp 
son  to  her  school,  and  he  must  have  taken  the  longest  road 
there,  so  Henry  thought,  from  the  time  it  took,  but  he  made 
no  remark  to  that  effect,  and  was  quite  willing  to  wait 
Evart's  motions,  as  the  whole  day  was  before  them.  It  made 


352  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

a  late  start,  however,  and  the  dwelling  of  Captain  Marston 
did  not  come  in  sight  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon.  As 
they  approached  this  spot,  so  full  of  interest  to  Henry,  he  had 
much  to  think  of.  The  past  came  fresh  to  his  mind ;  his 
weary  travel  on  the  day  that  first  brought  him  there,  his 
lonely  condition,  his  anxieties  and  fears,  his  meeting  with  the 
gentleman  at  the  gate,  his  kind  reception  at  the  house,  the 
scenes  through  which  he  had  since  passed,  and  his  present 
prospects.  "  Surely  his  short  life  had  been  varied  with  trial 
and  success ;"  and  although  the  present  was  full  of  bright 
ness,  so  far  as  concerned  his  future  independence,  yet  he 
could  not  say  he  was  so  happy  now  as  then. 

Just  before  reaching  the  gate,  a  party  on  horseback  was 
seen  coming  through  the  beautiful  avenue  :  these  were  a  lady 
and  two  gentlemen. 

"  There  is  Louise,"  said  Evart ;  "  I  can  tell  by  the  easy 
manner  in  which  she  manages  her  horse,  a  gay  steed  he  is, 
too.  She  rides  better  than  her  attendants." 

Henry  made  no  reply,  his  heart  was  too  sad  just  then. 
One  of  the  gentlemen  sprang  from  his  saddle  to  open  the 
gate,  and  at  that  moment  Evart  and  Henry  drove  up. 

Louise  rode  close  to  the  gig,  and  gave  her  hand  to  her 
cousin,  who  was  nearest  to  her ;  and  would  no  doubt  have 
extended  the  same  favor  to  Henry,  but,  as  he  merely  bowed 
and  raised  his  hat,  she  in  return  bowed  to  him,  but  with  a 
pleasant  smile  upon  her  face,  and  at  once  asked  kindly  after 
his  health. 

"  It  is  improving  fast ;  I  am  much  better,  I  thank  you." 

"  I  should  not  have  judged  so  from  your  appearance  ;  you 
are  so  pale,  paler  than  when  we  landed  in  New  York." 

Henry  was,  indeed,  as  pale  as  he  could  well  be,  considering 
his  complexion  had  been  so  thoroughly  bronzed.  He  made  a 
reply,  but  it  was  unheard  by  Louise,  for  her  attention  was 
just  then  arrested  by  the  efforts  of  the  gentleman  to  mount 
his  horse,  the  latter  being  restive,  and  his  rider  apparently 
not  accustomed  to  getting  into  the  saddle  "  under  difficulties." 

It  was  at  length  accomplished,  however,  and,  without  any 
introduction  of  the  gentlemen  on  either  side,  the  party  on 
horseback  rode  off,  laughing  and  talking  in  a  very  lively 
manner,  and  Henry  and  Evart  drove  up  to  the  mansion. 

Nothing  could  have  been  more  hearty  than  the  reception 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        353 

which  Henry  met  from  Mrs.  Marston  and  every  member  of 
the  family.  He  was,  indeed,  made  to  feel  that  at  last  he  had 
reached  home.  But  all  that  "availed  him  nothing;"  the 
scene  at  the  gate  had  spoiled  what  happiness  he  might  have 
enjoyed  ;  his  mind  was  not  just  then  under  its  best  influences. 
And  when  permitted  to  retire  to  his  room,  although  one  of 
the  most  eligible  sleeping  apartments  in  the  house,  and 
everything  at  his  command  that  luxury  could  ask,  he  sat 
down  moody  and  discontented,  and  even  regretting  that  he 
had  felt  it  necessary  to  come  there  at  all.  Thus  it  is  that  the 
best  of  us  have  to  learn  how  dangerous  for  our  peace  to  allow 
that  supremacy  to  any  earthly  object  which  belongs  alone  to 
God.  Sooner  or  later  it  proves  a  thorn  in  the  flesh,  goading 
us  into  evil  passions,  if  it  does  not  humble  us  for  our  idolatry. 

How  much  happier  was  the  boy  Henry  when  in  the  midst 
of  a  furious  tempest,  a  stranger  just  sheltered  beneath  that 
same  roof,  than  Mr.  Henry  Thornton,  the  young  man  with 
bright  prospects  and  warm  and  wealthy  friends,  who  seemed 
to  vie  with  each  other  in  administering  to  his  comfort. 

Henry  spent  much  more  of  his  time  that  evening  with 
Captain  Marston  in  his  office,  than  was  necessary  for  any 
business  arrangements  he  had  to  make.  And  when  obliged 
to  mingle  with  the  family  circle  in  the  parlor,  although 
treated  with  much  courtesy  by  all  present,  yet  the  forced 
pleasantness  of  manner  he  was  obliged  to  put  on,  was  so  irk 
some  to  him,  that  under  a  plea  of  fatigue,  and  the  necessity 
of  re°t  preparatory  to  his  next  day's  travel,  his  kind  hostess 
allowed  him  to  retire  at  an  early  hour. 

Very  different  was  the  state  of  things  with  Evart.  Louise 
was  now  to  him  only  his  fair,  agreeable  cousin.  He  watched 
indeed  every  opportunity  to  commune  with  her,  but  merely  for 
a  purpose  of  his  own.  First  he  had  to  let  her  know  that  he 
wished  to  make  a  confidant  of  her,  and  when  she  agreed  to 
place  herself  in  that  position,  she  found  that  her  cousin  Evart 
wanted  particular  information  concerning  a  young  lady  about 
whom  Louise  might  be  supposed  well  informed.  And  the 
questions  Evart  put,  led  her  to  the  conclusion  that  either  Evart 
or  some  friend  for  whom  he  was  most  interested,  had  motives 
for  the  inquiries  he  was  making,  of  a  very  delicate  nature. 
So,  after  Louise  had  said  all  she  knew  in  reference  to  the 
lady  in  question,  she  closed  as  follows : 


354  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

"  I  suppose  I  may  construe  your  apparent  interest  in  Miss 
Emma  Thompson  as  I  please  ;  you  have  put  your  queries  in 
a  form  that  might  lead  me  to  suppose,  cousin  Evart,  if  I  chose 
to  do  so,  that  you  wish  the  information  for  yourself,  although 
ostensibly  for  the  benefit  of  a  friend ;  but  I  shall  not  so  inter 
pret  your  design.  You  may  therefore  tell  your  friend,  that  I 
know  Miss  Emma  to  be  as  lovely  in  the  qualities  of  her  heart, 
as  she  is  engaging  in  personal  appearance." 

Evart  was  highly  pleased  to  think  that  he  had  been  able  to 
get  the  true  opinion  of  his  cousin,  without  exposing  to  her  his 
own  personal  feelings. 

He  had  some  scruples  of  delicacy,  after  all  his  professions 
to  Louise,  at  exposing  to  her  the  true  state  of  the  case.  Little 
did  he  think  that  he  was  inflicting  a  severe  wound  upon  her 
heart,  who  had  answered  his  questions  with  apparent  readi 
ness  and,  as  he  doubted  not,  with  perfect  sincerity. 

Louise  had  that  evening  been  surrounded  with  those  who 
paid  her  the  most  flattering  attentions.  Some  of  them  her 
heart  despised,  for  she  was  confident  that  they  were  but  the 
bait  thrown  out  to  catch  a  golden  prize.  That  all  who 
courted  her  favor  had  such  a  base  end  in  view  she  did  not 
believe  ;  and  one  among  the  number,  she  knew,  was  worthy  of 
her  love,  if  she  could  yield  it  to  him,  and  it  gave  her  real 
pain  that  his  suit  must  be  denied.  This  among  other  mat 
ters  troubled  her,  and  when  she  retired  for  the  night  to  her 
own  apartment,  and  sat  down  by  the  table  where  her  Bible 
lay,  she  opened  to  a  passage  often  read  in  secret  by  her, 
cast  her  eye  upon  it,  and  then  leaned  down  her  head  and 
wept. 

Early  in  the  morning  Evart  and  Henry  were  off,  and  both 
happy  in  the  prospect  of  soon  seeing  their  old  and  valued 
friend,  Mr.  Vernon,  who  was  making  his  annual  visit  to  the 
country. 

To  him  Henry  intended  to  communicate  what  information 
he  had  received  respecting  the  affairs  of  the  Thompson  family, 
and  to  be  guided  by  his  advice  as  to  the  best  way  of  pro 
ceeding. 

When  they  reached  the  precincts  of  Stratton,  and  were 
directing  their  course  to  the  old  farmhouse  where  Mr.  Ver 
non  had  formerly  resided,  they  descried  a  carriage  on  the 
road  they  were  travelling,  and  about  to  meet  them. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         355 

"  There  is  Vernon's  carriage,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,"  said 
Evart ;  "  we  shall  know  in  a  moment." 

As  the  vehicles  approached  each  other  and  were  on  the 
point  of  turning  out,  Evart  raised  his  hand  and  smiled ;  the 
coachman  raised  his  hat  in  return  and  stopped  his  horses. 
Immediately  a  gentleman  looked  out  to  see  what  might  be 
the  difficulty,  when  Evart  springing  from  the.  gig  with  the 
alacrity  of  a  boy,  was  most  cordially  greeted  by  his  much 
loved  friend. 

Henry  was  more  moderate  in  his  movements,  and  before 
he  could  reach  the  carriage  Mr.  Vernon  himself  had  alighted. 
He  fairly  grasped  Henry  in  his  arms,  and  his  eye  sparkled 
with  emotion  which  the  sight  of  this  young  man  had 
awakened,  and  keeping  fast  hold  of  his  arm,  insisted  upon  his 
getting  into  his  own  carriage,  and  that  Evart  must  drive  to 
the  tavern  where  they  would  soon  meet  him. 

It  was  indeed  a  marked  change  in  the  life  of  Henry. 
When  last  he  saw  Mr.  Vernon  in  this  place,  Henry  had 
looked  up  to  him  as  a  wealthy  city  gentleman,  who  came  to  the 
country  yearly  with  his  coach  and  horses,  and  was  treated  with 
great  consideration  by  all  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  be  on 
terms  of  acquaintance  with  him.  The  little  boy  had  often 
noticed  his  neat  establishment  as  it  passed  by  the  field  where  he 
was  working,  and  thought  how  far,  how  very  far,  its  owner  was 
lifted  up  above  the  station  he  occupied,  or  could  ever  hope  to 
reach.  Now,  in  that  same  place,  this  gentleman  has  met  him 
as  he  might  a  younger  brother  returned  after  a  long  absence, 
and  in  that  same  carriage  he  is  seated  an  equal,  or  treated  as 
such  by  the  great  and  good  man. 

As  Henry  had  come  upon  business  that  required  dispatch, 
he  lost  no  time  in  making  known  his  errand,  and  found  that 
Mr.  Vernon  was  then  on  his  way  to  see  the  very  gentleman 
whom  Henry  must  of  necessity  see,  in  order  to  obtain  a  full 
understanding  of  the  case  in  which  he  was  so  deeply  interested. 

"  I  am  on  my  way  to  the  office  of  Mr.  Rice  on  business  of 
my  own.  It  is  of  small  moment,  though,  and  I  shall  not 
enter  upon  it  at  present.  And  as  I  comprehend  your  errand, 
perhaps  you  may  as  well  let  me  be  the  speaker  on  the 
occasion." 

"  By  all  means,  sir ;  I  shall  be  glad  to  leave  the  manage 
ment  of  the  business  entirely  with  your  discretion." 


356  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST  J   OE, 

"  I  know  Squire  Rice  well ;  he  is  a  sharp  lawyer,  but  a  very 
honorable  high-minded  man  ;  above  all  those  little  arts  which 
disgrace  some  who  belong  to  that  noble  profession.  He  is 
highly  esteemed  in  this  place,  and  wherever  he  is  known. 
His  appearance  is  not  prepossessing,  nor  his  manners  very 
courteous  ;  but  no  one  who  is  acquainted  with  him  ever  takes 
offence  at  his  bluntness,  except  those  who  happen  to  come 
under  his  rebuke  for  meanness  or  duplicity." 

On  entering  the  office,  Henry  glanced  his  eye  at  the  gentle 
man,  who  was  seated  at  a  small  desk  engaged  in  writing.  His 
countenance  was  indeed  not  very  comely;  there  was  a  scowl 
on  his  brow,  and  the  deep  lines  about  his  mouth  gave  an 
expression  of  sternness,  if  not  ill  humor. 

"  Sit  down,  gentlemen." 

That  was  all  the  notice  he  took  of  his  visitors,  and  his  pen 
kept  on  with  its  rapid  motion  for  some  minutes.  At  length, 
with  much  moderation,  he  folded  his  paper,  placed  it  care 
fully  under  cover  of  a  portfolio  that  lay  by  him,  and  removing 
his  spectacles  up  to  a  position  on  his  forehead,  arose  and 
advanced  towards  the  two  gentlemen,  and  without  speaking 
gave  his  hand  to  Mr.  Vernon  and  then  to  his  young  compan 
ion,  whom  Mr.  Vernon  did  not  even  introduce  by  name.  He 
then  resumed  his  seat  and  sat  looking  first  at  one  and  then  at 
the  other,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Gentlemen,  I  am  now  ready  to 
hear  your  story." 

"Esquire  Rice,  I  have  called  to  talk  with  you  a  little  about 
the  property  of  the  widow  Thompson,  which  I  have  just 
heard  is  to  be  sold  on  the  morrow." 

"  Weil,  sir,  what  have  you  to  say?" 

"  Is  it  positively  to  be  sold  ?" 

"  Positively." 

"  Have  you  any  objections,  Squire  Rice,  to  let  me  know  a 
little  how  matters  stand  with  reference  to  it — what  are  its 
incumbrances  ?  I  believe  you  are  the  assignee." 

"  None  in  the  least,  I  am  the  assignee.  In  the  first  place, 
there  is  a  mortgage  on  the  property  for  four  thousand  dollars, 
and  then  there  are  outside  claims  on  it  and  the  furniture  for 
two  thousand  more,  or  about  that  amount — something  less, 
say  eighteen  hundred  dollars." 

"  What  will  it  probably  sell  for  ?" 

"  Cannot  say,  sir.     You  know,  Mr.  Vernon,  as  well  as  I  can 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         357 

tell  you,  that  the  present  is  no  time  to  sell  property ;  money 
cannot  be  had  on  any  security  ;  no  one  has  any.  The  pro 
perty  must  be  dreadfully  sacrificed.  Why,  sir,  there  are  one 
hundred  and  fifty  acres,  with  a  noble  house,  and  everything, 
barns  and  all,  in  complete  order  ;  land  rich  ;  eighty  acres  of 
the  property  in  wood,  the  finest  wood  land  in  this  region ;  the 
wood  itself  is  worth  this  moment  more  money  than  the  whole 
one  hundred  and  fifty  acres  will  sell  for.  It  is  a  bad  busi 
ness,  sir — a  shocking  business,  sir — but  my  hands  are  tied  ; 
no  redress — must  be  sold  for  what  it  will  bring." 

"  Cannot  the  creditors  be  induced  to  wait  ?  This  state  of 
things  cannot  last ;  money  will  be  more  plenty  in  a  few 
months." 

"  Some  of  them  would  wait,  no  doubt,  sir ;  some  of  them 
are  men  with  souls  in  their  bodies,  but  the  trouble  is  here,  sir. 
The  principal  mortgage  is  held  by  a  man  who,  I  suppose, 
is  expecting  to  purchase  the  place  himself — a  close-fisted, 
hard-hearted,  grinding  man;  you  know  the  fellow — I  won't 
call  him  a  man— Joe  Langstaff  !" 

Henry  started,  and  the  color  cam,e  to  his  face  as  it  had  not 
for  many  months,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  Mr.  Langstaff !  I  did  not  suppose  he  had  money  at 
interest." 

"  By  right,  sir,  I  believe  he  ought  not  to  have,  but  right 
does  not  always  obtain  in  this  world. 

"  Mr.  Langstaff,  you  know — or,  perhaps,  you  do  not  know 
it — married  an  excellent  lady,  as  I  have  been  told,  a  widow, 
the  widow  Thornton.  It  was  a  strange  match,  the  wonder  of 
every  one,  but  so  it  was ;  she  died,  as  I  hear,  of  a  broken 
heart,  and  I  believe  it,  for,  if  she  was  treated  as  represented 
to  me,  it  was  enough  to  have  put  any  sensitive  woman  in  her 
grave.  She  had  property,  no  one  knows  how  much,  but 
many  think,  and,  indeed,  I  have  reason  to  know  from  some 
circumstances  which  I  have  learned  of  late,  that  it  was  quite 
a  snug  little  sum.  This  by  right  ought  to  have  gone  to  her 
child,  an  only  son ;  a  fine,  spirited  little  fellow,  they  say  he 
was  ;  but  the  lad  took  offence,  and  justly  too,  at  the  treatment 
of  his  mother — that  is  the  story — and  went  off  without  a 
cent,  not  even  waiting  to  see  her  buried,  and  nobody  knows 
where  he  is,  or  whether  dead  or  alive.  And  Langstaff,  if  he 
does  know,  keeps  it  to  himself. 


358  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

"  This  four  thousand  dollars  belongs,  in  justice,  to  that  boy. 
But  that  is  not  the  question  now  :  Mr.  Laugstaff  has  a  claim 
on  this  property,  and  he  has  forced  matters  to  a  settlement, 
and  I  know  that  he  means  to  purchase  the  place  as  cheap  as 
he  can,  and,  if  he  can  scrape  together  a  thousand  dollars  be 
yond  what  he  has  a  mortgage  for,  he  will  get  the  place  !" 

"  You  think,  then,  it  will  not  bring  over  five  thousand 
dollars  ?" 

"  I  fear  not,  sir.  It  is  not  one-half  its  value,  no,  nor  one- 
third  its  value,  but  we  cannot  help  it." 

"  What  will  the  other  creditors  do  ?" 

"  Take  the  furniture,  strip  the  house,  stock  and  all !  It  has 
made  me  almost  sick,  Mr.  Vernon.  Lawyers  are  not  supposed 
to  be  troubled  very  much  with  tender  sensibilities,  and  seeing 
what  we  do  of  the  rascality  of  mankind,  it  is  not  strange  if 
we  should  get  a  little  hardened  ;  but  some  of  us  have  got  a 
little  human  nature  still  left.  And  to  see  that  fine  lady  and 
her  fine  son  and  lovely  daughters  driven  out,  houseless  and 
homeless,  is  enough  to  stir  up  a  man's  bile,  and  make  him 
mad  with  the  world.  Why,  Mr.  Vernon,  it  would  make  your 
heart  ache  to  know  how  that  little  fellow  her  son  feels. 
Charlie  is  a  fine  boy,  a  noble  boy,  of  great  resolution  and 
energy ;  he  has  almost  by  his  own  labor  supported  the  family 
the  past  year  ;  he  works  early  and  late,  never  seems  to  tire ; 
and  he  told  me  last  week  if  he  could  only  contrive  to  get  the 
house  released,  and  a  few  acres  of  land  around  it,  just  to  make 
a  home  for  his  mother  and  sisters,  it  would  be  all  he  would 
ask.  He  could  take  care  of  them,  he  knew  he  could  ;  and, 
sir,  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  like  rain,  when  I  told 
him  that  I  had  tried  to  accomplish  such  a  thing,  but  it  could 
not  be  done." 

"  Are  there  no  other  debts  against  the  estate  than  those 
you  have  mentioned  ?" 

"  Not  a  dollar,  sir." 

"  Esquire  Rice,  there  are  many  strange  things  taking  place 
in  this  world  ;  you  and  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  witness 
not  a  few — I  have  no  doubt  you  have ;  but  what  I  am  about 
to  say  to  you  will  be  as  surprising  as  anything  we  have  been 
cognizant  of  hitherto. 

"  This  young  gentleman  who  sits  beside  me  was,  but  a  few 
years  since,  a  boy  from  this  place ;  be  was  taken  much  notice 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         359 

of  by  Mrs.  Thompson  and  her  family,  treated  kindly  as  a 
gentleman—and  to  which  rank  he  ha'd  perhaps  some  claim ; 
he  became  attached  to  them,  and  feels  that  to  them  he  is 
under  special  obligations. 

"  He  has  made  his  own  way  in  life  since  then  ;  he  has  not 
seen  the  family  for  some  years,  but  has  accidentally  learned 
their  present  condition  ;  he  has  realized  a  few  thousand  dol 
lars,  and  he  is  over  here  now,  unbeknown  to  any  one  but  my 
self,  for  the  purpose  of  doing  what  he  can  to  prevent  this 
sacrifice  of  property  and  this  trial  of  feeling. 

"  He  can  go  to  the  extent  of  six  thousand  dollars,  and  that 
sum  will  be  at  your  disposal,  if  you  think  it  will  be  suffi 
cient  ?" 

"You  may  say  eight  thousand,  Mr.  Vernon;  I  cannot  see 
that  family  driven  from  their  home,  sir,  if  it  takes  all  I  am 
worth  f 

Mr.  Rice  arose,  and,  walking  up  to  Henry,  grasped  his 
hand. 

"  I  do  not  know  your  name,  young  man,  Mr.  Vernon  did 
not  give  it,  but,  thank  God,  I  feel  I  am  grasping  the  hand  of 
one  who  does  not  need  a  name  to  warm  my  heart  towards 
him.  And  mark  my  words,  my  young  friend,  He  who  keeps 
a  special  watch  over  the  widow  and  the  fatherless,  will  not 
suffer  your  grey  hairs  to  go  down  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  I 
had  rather  have  your  heart  than  all  the  gold  that  can  be 
piled  in  the  biggest  vault  that  miser  ever  owned  !  May  God 
bless  you !" 

"  And  now,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  "  I  will  introduce  my  young 
friend  to  you,  Esquire  Rice.  That  little  son  of  the  widow 
Thornton,  of  whom  you  have  heard,  and  whose  story  you 
have  told  so  truly,  and  this  young  gentleman,  are  the  same 
person.  Allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  dear  young  friend, 
Mr.  Henry  Thornton." 

Henry  had  risen,  and  still  held  the  hand  of  Esquire  Rice. 
Each  looked  at  the  other  a  moment  in  silence,  for  both  were 
highly  excited.  The  latter  was  the  first  to  speak. 

il  It  would  have  been  a  sufficient  recommendation,  Mr. 
Thornton,  to  be  named  by  Mr.  Vernon  as  his  dear  friend,  but 
the  revelation  he  has  made  of  your  noble  purpose  is,  indeed, 
a  proof  that  you  are  worthy  of  the  title.  I  am  most  happy  to 
know  you  and  I  assure  you,  sir,  nothing  shall  be  wanting  on 


360  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

my  part  to  carry  out  your  design.  And  now,  let  us  to 
business." 

The  arrangements  for  the  morrow  were  soon  made.  Mr. 
Vernon  and  Henry  were  to  attend  the  sale,  and  Henry  was 
to  be  the  bidder ;  Mr.  Rice,  of  course,  would  be  there,  but 
not  to  be  known  as  at  all  acquainted  with  their  plans. 

"  You  wish,  you  say,  Mr.  Thornton,  to  have  the  debts 
covered  by  the  bid  ?" 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  Mr.  Langstaff  may  be  disposed,  and  he  may  possibly  be 
able,  to  give  more  for  the  place  than  I  have  supposed;  he  is, 
I  know,  very  anxious  to  get  it.  He  may  have  made  some 
arrangement  with  the  other  creditors  by  which  he  can  afford 
to  make  a  large  bid,  we  cannot  say  ;  but  perhaps  you  had 
better  bid  boldly  at  the  first,  letting  him  make  the  start. 
With  all  my  heart  I  wish  you  may  succeed,  it  will  be  the 
happiest  hour  I  have  seen  for  many  a  day." 

"The  fact  is,  sir,  there  are  hearts  here  that  are  willing,  but 
the  means  are  not  to  be  had. 

Some  time  was  now  spent  by  the  three  gentlemen  in 
examining  papers  in  reference  to  Henry's  personal  rights,  and 
such  conclusions  were  soon  arrived  at  as  gave  Esquire  Rice, 
by  Henry's  orders,  some  extra  business,  which  was  to  be 
attended  to  without  delay,  and  which  might  possibly  turn  the 
scale  against  the  unmerciful  and  overbearing. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

IT  was  a  very  still  house  at  the  widow  Thompson's  that 
morning.  Sadness  sat  upon  each  brow,  for  it  was  to  be  the 
last  day  in  which  they  could  feel  that  the  house  where  for  so 
many  years  they  had  sheltered  was  their  own. 

This  they  had  been  expecting  for  some  time ;  but  to-day 
the  deed  was  to  be  consummated  that  would  deprive  them,  in 
the  space  of  a  few  hours,  of  any  right  to  tread  beneath  its 
roof. 

"  A  new  master  would  open  their  doors  without  leave  of 
them,  and  walk  through  their  spacious  hall  and  into  their 
most  private  rooms — and  look  abroad  from  their  terraced 
walks  upon  the  fruits  and  flowers  which  their  hands  had 
reared,  and  call  them  his !  And  he  would  go  through  their 
gates  which  opened  into  the  rich  fields  around  the  dwelling — 
spotted  with  noble  trees,  under  whose  shadows  they  all  had 
rested,  and  beheld  the  mowers — their  own  mowers — laying  the 
heavy  swaths  in  even  rows.  And  these  would  be  all  his  ! 
And  the  thick  woods,  beyond  those  fields,  where  their  own 
choppers  had  wielded  the  axe  and  gathered  their  winter's  fuel ; 
and  where,  in  golden  autumn,  they  had  walked  among  the 
rustling  leaves  and  gathered  their  store  of  nuts.  And  all  these 
would  be  his !"  And  how  could  they  but  be  sad. 

Mrs.  Thompson  had  endeavored  to  keep  up  the  cheer  in  the 
children's  hearts  until  that  morning.  It  was  the  funeral  day 
of  all  their  past  joys  in  the  old  homestead,  and  they  felt  it  to 
be  such.  All  spoke  in  low  tones,  and  even  their  step  through 
the  old,  long  loved  rooms  was  with  care — as  if  death  had  come 
under  their  roof  and  his  trophy  was  being  prepared  for  the 
grave. 

The  two  daughters  at  home,  Jane  and  Carrie,  tried,  indeed, 
at  times,  to  scatter  the  gloom  which  seemed  to  pervade  the 
house,  by  commencing  some  favorite  tune ;  but  neither  of 
them  could  finish  what  they  had  began — if  nothing  else,  the 
step  of  Charlie,  heard  approaching,  at  once  would  hush  all 
music  in  their  hearts  or  on  their  lips. 

16  861 


TBTTE  TO   THE  LAST      OK 


Charlie  was  now  sixteen,  and  large  for  his  age  ;  he  was 
most  tenderly  attached  to  his  mother  and  sisters;  he  was 
peculiarly  fond  of  his  home  —  he  and  his  sisters  had  been 
born  there;  he  knew  better  than  they  the  value  of  the  pro 
perty  ;  he  had  ascertained  during  the  past  year  as  never 
before,  how  much  could  be  reared  from  it  without  much  extra 
expense  for  labor,  and  he  felt  assured  if  it  could  but  be  spared 
a  few  years  longer,  the  whole  debt  might  be  paid  by  disposing 
of  wood  land  which  they  did  not  need  ;  he  had  conversed 
with  neighbors  and  disinterested  persons,  and  they  all  agreed 
with  him  in  that  opinion  ;  and  when  he  found  there  was  no 
hope  of  saving  the  farm,  he  had  then  tried  if  possible  to  secure 
the  house  and  adjoining  lot,  but  in  this  too  he  had  failed. 

And  this  morning,  for  the  first  time,  Charlie  yielded  up  all 
hope,  and  his  irresolute  step  and  down-cast  eye  revealed  to 
those  who  loved  him  that  he  had  given  up  all  for  lost.  His 
mother  had  tried  to  say  some  comforting  words,  but  he  knew 
well  enough  that  it  was  only  an  effort  on  her  part  to  revive 
his  spirits  ;  she  could  not  herself  see  how  they  were  to  be 
sustained. 

The  hour  of  nine  had  struck.  At  ten  o'clock  the  sale  was 
to  take  place  ;  Charlie  seized  his  hat  and  was  going  from  the 
house. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  the  tavern,  my  son  ?" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  And  why,  Charlie  ?  It  will  only  distress  your  feelings  — 
to  hear  the  old  place  bid  upon  and  to  listen  to  the  light  re 
marks  which  unfeeling  people,  or  thoughtless  people,  are  apt 
to  make  on  such  occasions.  I  think,  rny  dear  son,  I  would 
not  go." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  to  make  one  more  trial.  Mr.  Rice  has 
been  to  Mr.  Langstaff  and  endeavored  to  get  him  to  release 
the  house  and  the  house  lot.  He  assured  Mr.  Langstaff  that 
the  rest  would  more  than  pay  ;  but  he  refused  Mr.  Rice.  I 
think  if  I  go  and  tell  him  how  we  are  situated,  he  may  be 
persuaded,  perhaps,  to  put  off  the  sale." 

"  I  fear,  Charlie,  you  will  not  succeed.  Mr.  Langstaff  wants 
the  house  for  his  own  use  ;  his  son,  I  hear,  is  to  have  the  one 
the  family  now  occupy.  Mr.  Langstaff  has  said,  as  I  hear, 
that  before  the  sun  sets  to-day,  '  this  property  will  be  his.'  I 
am  afraid  you  will  only  get  your  feelings  injured." 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         363 

"  Mother,  let  me  try  ?" 

"  Well,  my  son,  if  you  will  feel  better  satisfied  I  cannot  say 
no  to  you  ;  but  do  not  stay  through  the  sale  ;  when  you  have 
done  all  you  can,  come  away — come  home." 

"  Home  !   oh,  mother,  you  forget !" 

And  without  saying  anything  further  he  went  on  his  way 
to  the  tavern. 

As  it  was  generally  known  through  the  town  that  a  sale  of 
the  Thompson  property  was  to  take  place  that  day  at  the 
Cross  Keys  tavern,  quite  a  number  of  persons  were  collected ; 
although  not  so  many  as  if  the  sale  had  been  of  a  kind  that 
all  could  have  a  chance  to  purchase  something ;  very  few 
attended  as  bidders,  so  that,  besides  those  immediately  inter 
ested  as  neighbors,  most  present  came  to  gratify  curiosity. 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  there  in  good  season  ;  he  was  to  be  the 
great  man  of  the  day,  and  wished  to  be  in  time  to  enjoy  the 
pleasure  of  being  questioned  about  the  affair,  and  giving  his 
reasons  for  having  brought  matters  to  a  close,  and  winding 
up  as  he  called  it  "  a  rotten  concern." 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  dressed  in  his  Sunday  suit — he  had  his 
best  harness  upon  his  horse,  and  his  wagon  had  been  washed 
for  the  occasion.  With  Mr.  Langstaff  came  two  of  his  sons ; 
the  eldest  as  large  as  himself,  with  a  coarse,  stern  look.  It 
was  said  that  the  old  man  would  be  right  glad  when  he  and 
his  son,  who  was  about  to  be  married,  could  have  separate 
establishments — there  was  little  peace  between  them.  The 
younger  son  was  a  dull  looking  youth  of  about  eighteen. 
They  all  seemed  to  be  in  fine  spirits,  and  when  they  drove  up 
to  the  tavern  were  immediately  surrounded  by  those  who  wish 
to  be  in  the  swell  which  a  great  man  makes,  even  if  he  be  a 
very  little  great  man.  And  as  Mr.  Langstaff  walked  into  the 
bar-room  he  was  accosted  by  most  of  those  present  with  a 
rough  shake  of  the  hand  and  the  usual  salutation  of  "  all  well 
at  home?"  Or,  "how  fares  it?"  No  one  ventured  to  say  a 
word  about  the  business  in  hand,  to  Mr.  Langstaff  personally ; 
but  little  groups  were  gathered  in  separate  knots  around  the 
room,  and  he  would  catch  a  word  occasionally  to  let  him  un 
derstand  that  it  was  supposed  he  would  be  the  purchaser. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  so,  and  had  in  his  pocket- 
book,  as  he  had  no  doubt,  more  than  sufficient  to  accomplish 
the  feat. 


364:  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST;   OK, 

And  many  with  whom  he  did  happen  to  talk  on  the  sub 
ject  were  assured  that  he  had  come  "  with  the  stuff  on  hand," 
that  "  he  was  prepared  for  the  worst" — "•  no  telling  what  might 
happen,"  "  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind  for  a  thing  he  did 
not  mean  to  be  balked  by  a  trifle." 

Mr.  Langstaff  also  took  opportunity  to  let  it  be  known  that 
he  was  acting  conscientiously  and  in  a  business  way  ;  "  it  was 
not  in  his  heart  to  distress  anybody — man  woman  or  child  ; 
but  right  was  right ;  a  man  could  not  always  be  kept  out  of 
his  own — creditors  can't  always  wait — money  was  scarce — 
but  when  would  it  be  better  ?  Who  knows  ?  I  don't.  Ups 
and  downs  will  come — people  must  keep  a  look-out  as  they 
go  along !" 

And  as  Mr.  Langstaff  delivered  himself  of  these  wise  say 
ings,  he  would  turn  his  eye  on  one  and  another  around  the 
room,  and  give  a  nod  with  his  head  and  receive  a  nod  of  ap 
probation  in  return. 

It  was  now  drawing  towards  the  hour  appointed  for  the 
sale ;  the  gig  of  Esquire  Rice  was  seen  coming  at  a  distance, 
and  the  sheriff  who  always  acted  as  auctioneer  for  the  town 
was  already  on  hand.  He  was  a  jovial,  good  hearted  fellow, 
who  had  much  rather  help  a  man  out  of  trouble,  than  into  it, 
any  day.  Everybody  liked  Sheriff  Culberston,  and  his  pre 
sence  always  shed  a  cheer  on  every  circle.  And  soon  after 
Mr.  Culberston  entered,  Charlie  Thompson  came  in.  Charlie 
was  very  warm  from  walking  such  a  distance,  and  no  doubt 
somewhat  excited.  Heedless  of  the  gaping  eyes  that  were 
fixed  upon  him,  he  being  just  then  an  object  of  the  same  kind 
of  interest  as  a  criminal  on  the  way  to  the  jail  or  the  gallows, 
advanced  at  once  to  Mr.  Langstaff,  and  taking  off  his  hat, 
politely  asked  that  gentleman  if  he  would  step  with  him  into 
the  adjoining  room. 

There  was  a  mighty  contrast  in  the  appearance  of  the  two 
individuals  as  they  stood  for  a  moment  face  to  face.  Charlie 
had  a  bright  fair  complexion,  large  dark  blue  eyes,  light  hair, 
curling  whenever  it  could  get  a  chance;  an  open  broad  fore 
head  ;  full  lips  and  remarkably  handsome  teeth,  which  were 
easily  seen  when  he  spoke.  Although  but  sixteen,  he  was 
equal  in  height  to  Mr.  Langstaff. 

The  latter,  as  Charlie  spoke  to  him,  put  on  his  most  sober 
severe  Sunday  aspect ;  he  no  doubt  felt  that  it  was  necessary. 


ALONE   ON  A   WIDE,   WEDE   SEA.  365 

Mr.  Langstaff  was  disturbed;  he  was  at  his  wit's  end — he 
could  not  imagine  what  the  youth  could  want  of  him — in 
private,  too!  So  he  turned  his  eye  towards  a  distant  part  of 
the  room,  but  made  no  reply.  At  length,  as  Charlie  stood 
respectfully  awaiting  his  answer,  he  said  in  a  rough  tone — 

"  What'do  you  want?" 

"  I  wish  to  say  a  word  to  you,  Mr.  Langstaff;  and  you  will 
confer  a  great  favor  on  me  to  allow  a  few  moments'  interview 
in  private." 

All  who  were  in  the  vicinity,  and  saw  the  earnestness  of 
the  boy,  began  to  have  their  hearts  warmed  towards  him ; 
they  could  talk  about  the  affairs  of  the  family  as  indifferent 
matters,  when  the  scene  was  removed  from  their  immediate 
presence ;  but  they  all  knew  Charlie ;  they  knew  how  ten 
derly  he  had  been  brought  up,  and  they  had  seen  how  man 
fully  he  had  borne  reverse  of  fortune,  and  how  he  had  labored 
for  the  support  of  his  mother  and  sisters ;  and  now  when  his 
fair  young  countenance  was  exposed  to  their  view,  bearing 
the  marks  of  intense  emotion,  it  was  a  reality  that  appealed 
at  once  to  their  better  feelings. 

Sheriff  Culbertson  stepped  up  to  Mr.  Langstaff  as  Charlie 
made  the  last  appeal,  and  touched  his  arm. 

"Go  along;  go  along  with  the  boy,  and  see  what  he 
wants." 

But  Mr.  Langstaff  was  that  morning  a  little  too  much  under 
the  power  of  his  evil  genius,  and  not  having  yielded  at  first 
willingly,  his  pride  forbade  that  he  should  be  influenced  by 
others. 

"  My  business,  Mr.  Culbertson,  don't  have  any  secrets ;  if 
anybody  wants  anything  of  me,  here  I  am,  ready  to  face  it ; 
business  is  business;  I  don't  want  no  child's  play !" 

Charlie  put  on  his  hat,  and  walking  towards  the  window, 
turned  his  back  to  it,  and  stood  waiting,  with  a  full  heart,  to 
see  the  end. 

Mr.  Langstaff  had  not  gained  by  this  operation  ;  there  _was 
a  buzz  through  the  room,  that  he  could  not  very  well  misin 
terpret  ;  people  spoke  not  loud,  but  with  an  earnestness,  that 
showed  how  they  felt. 

The  hour  has  at  length  arrived ;  "  Squire  Rice  has  come, 
was  said  by  two  or  three  different  voices.     Mr.  Sheriff  begins 
to  take  out  his  papers,  and  moves  towards  a  corner  of  the 


366  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OR, 

room,  and  a  chair  is  placed  for  him,  on  which  to  stand,  and 
near  by  is  a  small  table,  and  the  squire,  without  speaking  to 
any  one,  takes  a  chair,  and  places  it  thereat,  and  sitting  down, 
lays  some  paper  before  him,  and  commences  writing. 

The  company  forms  a  circle  at  a  little  distance. 

"  The  clock  has  struck  ten,  Mr.  Sheriff!"  said  Langstaff. 

"I  know  that,  sir,  but  she's  too  fast  by  ten  minutes;  no 
hurry,  we  want  a  full  house;  there  may  be  many  more  on  the 
way ;  who  knows !  we  want  the  right  kind  of  folks  here  to 
day,  if  we  can  get  them ;  it  isn't  often  such  a  valuable  piece 
of  property  goes  under  the  hammer;  no  hurry,  Mr.  Lang- 
staff." 

The  squire  kept  on  writing;  occasionally  his  eye  would 
glance  round  the  room,  as  though  in  search  of  some  one,  and 
then  be  fixed  again  on  the  paper. 

At  length  the  sheriff  addresses  him  in  a  low  voice. 

"  I  suppose  the  time  has  fully  arrived  ;  shall  we  wait  any 
longer !" 

The  squire  takes  out  his  watch,  his  eye  is  not  on  it ;  he  is 
looking  anxiously  round  the  room ;  he  is  evidently  disturbed ; 
he  lays  his  watch  upon  the  table. 

"  It  is  ten  o'clock  precisely,  lacking  one  minute ;  I  suppose 
you  may  as  well  begin ;  I  was  in  hopes  " 

"  Expecting  any  bidders  ?" 

"  You  may  begin !" 

Just  as  the  sheriff  mounted  his  chair,  a  carriage  drove  up, 
and  "  There's  Mr.  Vernon !"  was  whispered,  near  the  door. 
In  a  moment  more,  that  gentleman  entered,  accompanied  by 
a  tall  young  man,  genteelly  dressed.  No  one  seemed  to  know 
him,  although  every  eye  was  intently  fixed  that  way.  The 
two  gentlemen  did  not  advance  but  barely  into  the  room,  and 
seemed  very  unconcerned  spectators  of  what  was  going  on. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  Mr.  Langstaff,  stooping  over,  and 
whispering  to  the  squire,  "  who  that  young  man  is,  that  has 
come  in  with  Mr.  Vernon  ?" 

"  Some  friend  of  his,  likely  !" 

There  was  not  much  satisfaction  for  Mr.  Langstaff  in  this 
reply,  and  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  put  another  question  if 
the  sheriff  had  not  just  then  called  the  attention  of  the  com 
pany  to  the  business  before  them. 

In  a  full,  clear  voice,  he  read  a  description  of  the  property 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        367 

offered  for  sale,  and  after  some  preliminary  remarks,  setting 
forth  its  value,  he  was  about  to  begin,  when  an  interruption 
was  caused  by  Mr.  Langstaff. 

"  You  had  better  state  that  the  sale  is  for  cash  on  the  nail !" 

"  Aye,  aye,  sir ;  I  believe  I  have  stated  that,  but  I  can  repeat 
it.  Gentlemen  :  this  property  is  to  be  sold  for  cash  on  de 
livery  of  the  deed.  And  now  for  a  bid ;  your  minds  are 
made  up,  no  doubt.  It  is  a  fine  estate,  and  ought  to  command 
a  great  price.  What  do  you  say  ?" 

There  was  a  momentary  pause,  when  Mr.  Laugstaff,  in  a 
full  voice,  called  out — 

"  Four  thousand  one  hundred  dollars ! 

"  Four  thousand  one  hundred  dollars ;  gentlemen,  you 
hear  that !" 

"  Four  thousand  three  hundred  dollars !" 

Mr.  Langstaff  looked  at  the  gentleman  who  made  the  bid ; 
it  was  one  of  the  creditors ;  it  took  him  somewhat  by  sur 
prise,  but  he  called  out  again — 

"  Four  thousand  four  hundred  dollars!" 

"  Four  thousand  four  hundred  dollars.  Gentlemen,  only 
four  thousand  four  hundred — four  thousand  four  hundred — 
four  thousand  four — 

"  Six  thousand  dollars !" 

Mr.  Langstaff  dropped  a  paper  he  had  in  hjs  hand,  and  the 
color  flew  from  his  face;  he  did  not  look  round;  he  heard 
the  bid  come  from  beyond  the  circle  in  which  he  was  stand 
ing.  Smiles  were  on  every  countenance ;  and  all  who  con 
veniently  could,  fixed  their  eye  on  the  young  stranger. 

"  Six  thousand  dollars !  did  I  understand  you,  sir  ?"  said 
the  auctioneer,  looking  earnestly  at  the  bidder. 

"  Yes,  sir,  six  thousand  dollars ;  it  is  my  bid,  I  believe !" 

"  It  is,  sir,  and  I  thank  you  for  it.  Gentlemen,  six  thousand 
dollars  is  bid  for  this  splendid  property;  not  half  its  value 
yet  Come,  gentlemen,  be  lively.  Mr.  Langstaff,  now  is  your 
chance ;  not  half  its  value  yet !  Six  thousand  ;  six  thousand  ; 
six  thousand ;  six  thousand ;  six  thousand.  Gentlemen,  I 
am  not  going  to  wait;  if  any  of  you  want  this  property  for 
more  than  six  thousand  dollars,  you  must  bid  quick ;  it  is 
cheap  as  dirt,  and  you  all  know  it.  Gentlemen,  have  you 
done?  Going  at  six  thousand  dollars !  All  done?  Going; 
going;  gone!" 


368  TRUE   TO   THE  LAST  J   OE, 

And  his  hands  clapped  together. 

"  What  name,  sir  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Cornelia  Thompson  !" 

The  moment  the  name  was  announced,  a  clapping  of  hands 
was  distinctly  heard  from  a  person  near  the  auctioneer;  it 
was  by  one  of  the  creditors ;  and  at  once,  as  by  an  electric 
impulse,  it  ran  through  the  assembly ;  then  stamping,  and  to 
crown  all,  some  outsiders  gave  a  huzza,  and  all  within  joined 
in  the  chorus. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar,  Charlie  sprang  from  the  station 
he  had  occupied,  and  passing  through  the  crowd,  came  up  to 
Esquire  Rice : 

"  What  does  it  mean,  Mr.  Rice  ?" 

The  gentleman  put  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  youth, 
and  whispered  to  him — 

"  It  means,  Charlie,  that  your  mother's  property  is  again 
in  her  own  hands,  and  all  debts  paid !" 

"  But  how  ?  Who  has  done  it  ?  Tell  me  his  name.  Who 
is  he«" 

"  He  is  a  good  friend ;  he  will  call  upon  your  mother  in  a 
few  moments ;  go  home,  and  give  the  news !" 

On  his  way  out,  Charles  came  close  by  the  stranger ;  their 
eyes  met ;  he  put  forth  his  hand,  and  it  was  grasped  warmly  ; 
not  a  word  was  spoken ;  they  gazed  at  each  other  an  instant, 
and  then  Charles  broke  from  the  room,  and  went  rapidly  on 
his  way. 

At  once,  there  was  quite  a  crowd  around  Esquire  Rice, 
inquiring — "  Who  is  he  ?  Who  is  he,  Squire  Rice «" 

"  A  gentleman  ;  a  man,  every  inch  of  him !" 

"  But  his  name  !" 

"  You  all  ought  to  know  him.  Do  you  not  remember  a 
lad  who  once  lived  here,  by  the  name  of  Henry  Thornton  ?" 

"  Little  Henry  Thornton !" 

"  He  was  little  once  ;  but  he  is  no  chicken  now.  But  Mr. 
Langstaff  can  tell  you  all  about  him  ;  ask  him  !" 

Mr.  Langstaff,  however,  did  not  wait  to  answer  any  ques 
tions  ;  he  was  making  his  way  out  of  the  room,  in  a  direction 
as  far  from  the  young  stranger  as  possible,  who  was  just  then 
very  busy  shaking  hands  with  old  acquaintances. 

Poor  Mr.  Langstaff  did  not  find,  that  by  getting  into  the 
next  room,  he  had  escaped  difficulties.  He  was  met  as  soon 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        369 

as  there  by  an  officer  of  the  town,  who  politely  placed  a 
paper  in  his  hand,  whioh  Mr.  Langstaff  opened,  and  com 
menced  to  read.  A  few  lines  caused  him  to  take  a  seat,  and 
wipe  the  big  drops  from  his  forehead. 

The  officer  did  not  wait,  however,  to  receive  an  answer 
but  hastened  to  the  bar-room,  and  handed  to  the  squire  a 
paper,  similar  to  the  one  he  had  presented  Mr.  Langstaff. 

"  Esquire  Rice,  I  am  ordered  by  Judge  Woodruff  to  hand 
you  this  paper.  I  have  just  given  a  copy  to  Mr.  Lanor. 
staff." 

The  Esquire  glanced  at  it,  and  began  whistling  a  tune  in  a 
low  strain. 

"  All  right,  sir — shall  be  attended  to." 

The  officer  having  accomplished  his  task,  mingled  with  the 
company,  and  it  is  very  possible  made  no  secret  of  the  busi 
ness  he  had  been  sent  upon. 

"There  goes  Langstaff!"  said  many  voices,  as  he  was  seen 
to  pass  the  tavern  on  his  way  home ;  "  he  cuts  up  the  old 
horse  pretty  well — hurry  to  get  home — brought  up  standing 
— good  for  him  !' 

As  soon  as  Henry  could  get  away  from  the  hands  which 
were  constantly  being  held  out  to  him,  he  said  a  few  words  to 
the  esquire,  and  then  followed  Mr.  Vernon  to  the  carriage, 
which  had  been  in  waiting  at  the  door. 

"  Drive  to  the  Widow  Thompson's." 

We  must  now  follow  the  impatient  Charlie,  on  his  way 
home.  How  long  it  took  him  to  get  there  we  cannot  say,  or 
whether  he  ran  or  walked,  he  never  could  tell  himself.  But 
the  girls  saw  him  as  he  entered  the  gate,  he  seemed  almost 
exhausted — they  ran  down  the  steps  to  meet  him. 

"  Dear  Charlie,  how  heated  you  are  !     What  is  the  matter  ?" 

"Where's  mother?     Where's  mother?" 

She  heard  his  voice,  and  sprang  towards  him. 

"  Oh  mother — dear  mother  !"  and  he  fell  upon  her  neck. 

"  My  dear,  dear  son  !     Bear  up,  bear  up." 

"  Oh  mother,  it  is  too  good  !     It  is  all  yours  again." 

"  Charlie,  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  is  all  yours,  bought  in  your  name,  and  the  debts  all 
paid." 

"  Sit  down,  Charles — sit  down  ;  calm  yourself !"  He  was 
weeping  aloud. 

16* 


370  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  J    OB, 

"  Who  has  done  it,  Charles  ?  How  has  it  come  about  ? 
Tell  me,  my  son  ?  calm  yourself — are  you  sure  of  what  you 
say?" 

"  I  am  sure,  mother ;  but  who  it  is  I  cannot  tell !  He  is  a 
young  man,  tall,  and  very  handsome.  I  have  seen  him  be 
fore,  I  am  sure  I  have;  but  where,  I  cannot  tell.  Esquire 
Rice  told  me  he  was  a  friend  of  ours,  and  that  he  would  wait 
upon  you  soon,  and  that  I  must  hasten  and  give  you  the 
news.  Dear  girls — oh,  shall  we  not  be  happy !" 

And  Charlie  put  his  arms  around  them  both  as  they  show 
ered  kisses  upon  him,  and  mingled  their  tears  with  his. 

"  There  is  Mr.  Vern'on's  carriage,"  said  Mrs.  Thompson,  as 
she  looked  from  the  window,  where  she  stood  weeping  such 
tears  of  gladness,  as  a  mother  only  can  shed  when  children 
are  rescued  from  distress  and  gloom. 

"  Then  they  have  come !"  said  Charles ;  "  yes,  there  he  is — . 
oh  I  must  go  and  meet  him."  And  breaking  from  his  sis 
ters,  he  hurried  to  meet  and  welcome  the  mysterious  friend 
who  had  poured  such  a  fullness  of  joy  into  their  hearts. 

"  Charlie,"  said  the  young  stranger,  as  they  clasped  hands, 
"  have  you  quite  forgotten  me  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  you,  but  when,  or  where,  I  cannot  tell." 

"  Perhaps  your  mother  can  recognize  one  whom  her  kind 
heart,  in  days  past,  led  her  to  sympathize  with,  and  com 
fort." 

Henry  was  just  then  ascending  the  steps,  and  giving  his 
hand  to  Mrs.  Thompson. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  an  intense  gaze. 

"  Oh,  can  it  be !  Yes,  I  am  sure  it  is  his  smile  !  Henry, 
Henry,  is  it  so  ?" 

"  I  am  Henry ;  the  Henry  you  once  took  such  kind  notice 
of,  and  who  has  never  forgotten  how  much  he  owes  to 

you." 

"  My  dear,  dear  boy !"  and  she  kissed  him  as  she  would 
her  own  Charlie. 

Henry  was  not  made  of  very  stern  materials,  and  the  tokens 
of  the  deed  he  had  so  happily  accomplished  were  so  manifest 
on  every  countenance  then  beaming  upon  him,  that  he  was 
compelled  to  sit  down  and  let  his  feelings  have  vent. 

But  we  must  leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  the 
filling  up  of  the  scene — the  questions  to  be  asked  and  an- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,   WIDE   SEA. 

swered — not  only  in  reference  to  the  years  which  had  inter 
vened,  but  also  as  to  the  way  in  which  Henry  had  become 
acquainted  with  the  peculiar  situation  of  their  affairs.  This 
last  involved  at  once  the  name  of  their  dear  Emma — dearer 
than  ever,  because  an  exile  from  home,  laboring  among  stran 
gers,  and  Charlie  at  once  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Mother,  I  must  go  and  see  Emma  !  I  must,  mother,  and 
take  her  the  news.  Oh,  how  she  will  feel !  and  perhaps  she 
will  come  home  with  me." 

"  Allow  me  to  put  in  a  word,"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  "  in  refer 
ence  to  tbat  matter.  A  young  gentleman,  a  very  particular 
friend  of  Mr.  Henry  Thornton,  and  who  came  on  with  him, 
and  I  may  say  also,  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine,  having,  on 
his  way  here,  become  partially  acquainted  with  Miss  Emma, 
and  learning  how  things  were  situated,  having  a  very  warm 
and  generous  heart,  was  anxious  for  some  active  part  in  this 
pleasing  work  He  would  gladly  have  shared  his  purse  with 
Henry  in  accomplishing  the  noble  deed,  but  not  being  per 
mitted  to  do  that,  he  begged  the  privilege,  last  evening,  of 
going  as  an  express  with  the  tidings  to  Miss  Emma,  so  tbat 
her  fears  might  be  quieted." 

"  Oh  how  kind  !"  exclaimed  both  mother  and  children. 

"And  I  was  going  to  say  further"  (Mr.  Vernon  never  coul' 
say  things  fast),  "  that  this  young  gentleman  has  also  taken 
it  into  his  head,  that  possibly  Miss  Emma  might  be  persuad<  i 
to  leave  her  school  for  a  few  days — it  being  such  a  partio;; 
lar  occasion — and  accompany  him  back;  that  she  mig1;; 
have  an  opportunity  to  rejoice  together  with  you  all  in  her 
old  home." 

"And  has  he  gone?"  exclaimed  Charlie,  who  was  still  CM, 
his  feet,  ready  for  a  start. 

"  He  has.  After  gaining  the  full  consent  of  Henry  and  rm  - 
self,  he  lost  no  time,  but  started  off  at  a  very  brisk  rate,  just 
before  sunset,  and  it  would  not  surprise  me  to  see  them  here 
at  any  moment." 

As  Mr.  Vernon  paused,  there  was  a  rush  for  the  door  ar  < 
windows,  each  looking  in  the  same  direction.  All  exce;  '. 
Mrs.  Thompson  and  Mr.  Vernon,  between  whom  a  conversa 
tion  was  kept  up,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  indicated  no  particn 
lar  desire  on  *'>e'r  part,  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  res-  ; 
occasional 'v.  ho-.vever,  the  name  of  Marston  could  be  hea •••!, 


372  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST;   OK, 

and  once  Mr.  Vernon  asked  Henry,  in  a  very  audible  voice, 
"if  he  knew  the  exact  age  of  his  friend  Evart?" 

Mr.  Vernon  and  Henry  had  made  a  special  appointmeat 
to  dine  with  Esquire  Rice ;  they  were  therefore  obliged  to 
leave  the  pleasant  circle,  to  keep  watch  by  themselves  for 
their  expected  guests. 

It  was  not,  however,  until  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  that 
the  alarm  was  given.  They  were  all  seated  on  the  wide 
piazza,  having  almost  forgotten  for  what  purpose  they  had 
assembled  there,  so  busily  engaged  were  they  in  talking 
about  the  strange  things  which  had  already  taken  place,  and 
of  some  that  were  in  anticipation,  when  suddenly  Charles 
seized  his  hat  and  ran  towards  the  gate.  He  made  no  reply 
to  their  calls  after  him,  until  he  reached  the  open  road,  and 
then  he  raised  his  hand. 

"  Charlie  sees  them,  mother  ;  I  know  he  does  !  Oh,  dear 
Emma !" 

Very  soon  they  could  descry,  through  the  thick  foliage 
that  inclosed  them  from  the  highway,  an  approaching  ve 
hicle,  arid  then  a  handsome  horse  and  gig  drove  up. 

"  Oh,  it  is  Emma  !  She  has  got  Charlie  round  the  neck — 
see,  dear  mother !  and  do  see,  she  has  taken  the  gentleman's 
arm ;  how  happy  she  seems  to  be !  do  let  us  go  and  meet 
them  I1' 

Whether  Evart  felt  that  he  was  fully  paid  for  riding  ex 
press,  as  he  entered  the  house,  and  witnessed  the  outpouring 
of  their  happy  hearts,  we  will  not  pretend  to  say.  He  seemed 
to  be  perfectly  satisfied,  and  to  feel  very  much  at  home,  and 
he  and  Charlie  were  soon  walking  together,  arm  in  arm,  and 
talking  about  family  matters,  like  two  brothers,  and  the  two 
sisters  and  Miss  Emma,  on  retiring  that  evening,  allowed  him 
the  same  privilege  they  did  Charlie — a  kiss  for  good  night — 
and  he  is  to  occupy  a  room  with  Henry  there,  while  they 
stay.  And  Emma  has  found  another  young  lady  to  take  her 
place  at  the  school — she  does  not  go  back ;  and  many  things 
are  daily  taking  place,  not  worth  while  recording  perhaps, 
which  make  it  manifest  that  they  are  all  very  happy ;  the 
dark  cloud  has  spent  its  fury,  and  sunshine  and  gladness  are 
upon  them. 

It  was  three  days  after  the  events  just  recorded,  that  Henry 
made  a  call  at  the  office  of  Esquire  Rice. 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         373 

The  gentleman  was  as  busy  as  ever,  and  received  Henry 
very  much  after  the  manner  of  their  first  interview.  The 
conversation,  however,  this  time  was  commenced  by  the 
Squire,  and  it  related  principally  to  the  sale,  and  the  happy 
result  of  the  whole  affair.  Very  soon  he  spread  out  some 
papers  upon  the  table,  and  requested  Mr.  Thornton  to  draw 
up  and  give  his  attention  for  a  moment. 

"  There,  Mr.  Thornton,  is  a  mortgage  deed  from  Mrs. 
Thompson,  covering  the  amount  you  have  so  promptly  ad 
vanced.  It  is  signed  and  sealed,  and  I  believe  you  will  find 
it  correct." 

"  This  is  quite  superfluous,  Esquire  Rice ;  I  expected  nothing 
of  this  kind ;  I  should  prefer  not  to  take  it." 

The  squire  settled  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  looking 
keenly  at  Henry — 

"  That  is  all  very  well,  Mr.  Thornton  ;  very  generous  in 
you,  no  doubt ;  but  there  are  two  sides  to  this  question,  as 
there  are  to  almost  all  others.  In  the  first  place,  the  family 
will  feel  much  better  satisfied  to  have  it  so ;  the  property  is 
large,  and  enough  can  be  sold  from  it  in  time,  and  that  not 
very  distant,  to  liquidate  the  claim,  and  leave  them  enough 
for  all  practical  purposes.  Charlie  is  young,  very  ambitious 
and  resolute ;  it  will  be  the  making  of  him  to  have  such  a 
stimulus  to  exertion  as  this  will  entail.  He  can  make  sales 
of  wood  and  land,  too,  as  he  finds  opportunities,  and  will  no 
doubt  accomplish  the  thing ;  and,  when  once  done,  it  will  be 
worth  a  fortune  to  him  in  experience  and  in  the  confidence  it 
will  give  him  for  the  future.  In  the  meantime,  they  will  feel- 
perfectly  secure  to  have  the  claim  against  them  in  your 
hands. 

"  In  the  second  place,  Mr.  Thornton,  although  for  a  young 
man  you  have  done  well  for  yourself,  yet  Mr.  Vernon  tells 
me,  that  the  amount  you  have  expended  takes  one-half  of  ' 
what  you  are  worth.  I  know  your  prospects  are  good,  and 
that  you  are  connected,  or  soon  to  be,  with  an  old  and  well 
established  house;  but  prospects  are  one  thing  and  property 
in  hand  is  quite  another  thing,  Mr.  Thornton ;  take  the  word 
of  one  who  has  considerable  experience  in  such  matters. 

"  You  have  done  a  noble  deed,  and  accomplished  a  mighty 
good  for  that  family ;  you  ought  to  be  thankful  that  by  a 
mysterious  hand  you  was  led  into  this  matter  just  as  you  were. 


374:  TRUE  TO   THE   LAST  |   OK, 

Why,  sir,  when  Mr.  Vernon  told  me,  the  day  you  first  called 
here,  what  was  the  purport  of  your  errand,  you  seemed  to 
me  just  as  truly  an  angel  of  God  as  any  of  those  messengers 
who,  in  old  times,  were  sent  to  the  Patriarchs  in  any  of  their 
troubles.  I  had  given  up  all  hope  for  the  family,  help  was 
not  to  be  had ;  Mr.  Vernon  had  been  away,  and  knew  nothing 
about  the  thing  until  you  told  him,  and  even  he  could  not  in 
time  have  raised  the  means.  It  is  the  most  perplexing  time 
for  money  that  has  been  in  my  day.  No,  sir,  there  is  no 
doubt  but  for  your  interference  Mr.  Langstaff  would  be  this 
day  the  owner  of  that  estate,  and  the  furniture  selling  to  pay 
the  other  creditors. 

Take  my  advice,  sir ;  be  content  with  what  you  have  done, 
and  thankful  that  you  had  the  ability  and  the  heart  to  do  it." 

"  I  shall  not  .put  it  on  record,  Mr.  Rice." 

"Just  as  you  please  about  that ;  there  is  no  danger  now 
that  all  claims  are  satisfied.  And  now  we  have  done  with 
that,  let  us  allude  to  your  business  with  Mr.  Langstaff.  He 
is  in  a  peck  of  troubles ;  he  is  on  a  sick-bed,  and,  I  think,  is 
very  unwell.  The  fact  is,  sir,  '  he  has  sown  to  the  wind,  and 
is  about  to  reap  the  whirlwind  !' " 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  distress  him,  sir ;  all  I  have  wished 
was,  to  have  justice  done  to  my  mother's  memory.  It  ought 
to  be  known  that  she  was  no  burden  to  him,  and  that  his 
penuriousness  brought  her  to  the  grave  !" 

"  That  is  pretty  well  known  already,  sir ;  he  is  now  threat 
ened  with  prosecutions  by  those  who  have  purchased  the 
property ;  they  find  that  their  titles  are  good  for  nothing. 
But,  sir,  besides  all  this,  he  has  domestic  troubles  which  pro 
bably  have  done  more  than  anything  else  to  disturb  his  rnind, 
and  from  what  I  can  learn,  have  laid  him  on  his  back.  It 
seems  that  his  eldest  son  has  been  for  some  time  engaged  to 
be  married,  and  it  had  been  concluded  between  the  father 
and  his  son  that,  as  soon  as  he  got  possession  of  the  Thomp 
son  estate,  the  old  place  was  to  have  been  resigned  to  the  two 
boys,  the  elder  brother  to  marry  and  keep  house,  and  the  old 
man,  with  his  present  wife  and  her  two  children,  to  remove 
to  the  new  establishment. 

"  As  you  know,  he  was  disappointed  there  ;  and  so  sure 
were  they  all  that  the  prize  was  their  own,  that  this  elder  son, 
unbeknown  to  any  of  the  family,  took  it  into  his  head  to  an- 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        375 

ticipate  matters  a  little,  and  was  married  the  evening  before 
the  day  of  sale,  and  when  he  found  out  how  things  had  gone, 
that  very  day  brought  his  wife  home.  This,  of  course,  was 
like  a  bomb  thrown  into  a  magazine;  an  explosion  took 
place  that  has  put  things  into  a  sad  state  of  confusion  ;  it  is 
altogether  a  '  bad  kettle  of  fish.'  This  son's  wife  is  a  vixen, 
and  the  present  Mrs  Langstaff  has  a  high  temper,  and  full 
proud  enough  for  their  circumstances,  and  when  the  two 
ladies  came  together,  and  the  whole  of  the  case  was  compre 
hended,  there  was  a  blaze  in  less  than  no  time  ;  and  when  the 
old  man  tried  to  smooth  things  over,  his  wife  and  children 
both  turned  upon  him,  and,  as  he  has  been  for  the  last  two 
-.ears  troubled  with  a  heart  disease,  the  excitement  brought 
on  a  violent  attack,  which  had  well-nigh  put  an  end  to 
him. 

"  The  upshot  of  the  matter  is,  that  his  wife  has  taken  her 
two  children  and  what  furniture  belonged  to  her,  and  gone  to 
live  with  her  relatives,  and  says  his  children  may  take  care 
of  him,  and  the  children  are  not  disposed  to  put  themselves 
out  in  waiting  upon  him,  and  he  has  to  depend  upon  the  kind 
ness  of  neighbors.  He  is  verily  in  a  bad  case ;  but,  strange 
to  say,  he  seems  a  very  different  man  from  what  he  was  a 
few  days  since.  I  have  seen  him  this  morning ;  he  is  not 
only  ready  to  make  all  the  reparation  to  you  in  his  power, 
but  seems  to  feel  really  anxious'  to  <3o  so,  and  has  expressed 
to  me  a  wish  that  when  the  thing  is  settled,  he  might  see 
you,  in  order  to  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"  Would  there  be  any  difficulty  in  my  going  there  to  see 
him  ?" 

"  Do  you  think  it  best  to  go  there  ?" 

"  I  do,  sir ;  it  will  no  doubt  be  very  unpleasant.  I  had 
hoped  never  to  be  compelled  again  even  to  behold  a  place  so 
associated  with  what  is  painful  in  my  past  life,  but  1  shall  not 
feel  satisfied  now  without  seeing  him." 

"  Then,  if  you  have  no  objections,  I  will  accompany  you  ; 
my  presence  may  not  only  insure  you  against  uncivil  treat 
ment  from  his  children,  but,  without  it,  you  may  not  be  per 
mitted  even  to  see  him." 

A.s  Henry  gladly  accepted  the  proposal  of  Mr.  Rice,  both 
gentlemen  repaired  thither. 

13 ut.  little  change  had  taken  place  in  the  external  appear- 


376  TRUE  TO  THE   LAST;   OE, 

ance  of  things  about  the  house.  To  Henry  it  presented  the 
same  dull,  naked  aspect  as  when  he  left  it. 

Their  knock  at  the  door  was  not  answered  for  some  time, 
and  then  not  until  a  young  woman  had  been  seen  by  them 
reconnoi taring  from  a  corner  of  the  building.  The  door  was 
at  length  opened,  and  the  same  female  th-ey  had  seen  stood 
before  them  holding  the  knob  in  one  hand,  and  apparently 
dubious  as  to  the  propriety  of  admitting  them.  Her  counte 
nance  was  not  an  agreeable  one,  either  because  of  its  natural 
coarseness  of  feature  or  some  disturbing  elements  at  work 
within  her  mind.  The  squire  did  not  wait  to  be  invited  in ; 
he  merely  said  to  the  lady,  "  Good  morning,  madam,"  and 
then  stepped  within  the  entry,  saying  to  Henry — "  Mr. 
Thornton,  I  will  show  you  the  way  into  Mr.  Langstaff's 
room." 

As  Henry  bowed  to  the  lady  on  passing  her,  he  received 
rather  a  severe  look,  and,  as  he  ascended  the  stairs,  he  heard 
his  own  name  mentioned  in  no  very  respectful  terms,  to  some 
one  she  called  "  Jim." 

Esquire  Rice  led  the  way  into  the  very  room  where  Henry 
took  his  last  leave  of  his  mother,  and  on  the  very  bed  where 
she  expired  lay  the  wretched  man,  who  had  then  sat  so  un 
concernedly  by  her  side,  apparently  now  himself  about  to 
contend  with  the  last  enemy. 

There  was  no  time  for  indulging  sad  reflections,  nor  was 
one  revengeful  thought  harbored  by  the  young  man ;  he  was 
the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  am  truly  sorry,  sir,  to  see  you  thus." 

There  was  no  immediate  reply,  only  Henry  felt  his  hand 
pressed  more  tightly.  In  a  little  while  the  difficulty  of 
breathing  was  somewhat  relieved,  and  Mr.  Langstaff,  in  a  very 
feeble,  broken  voice,  expressed  his  satisfaction  that  Henry  had 
come  ;  "  he  had  much  to  say  to  him,"  but  first — 

"  I  wish  to  ask  forgiveness  for  the  past.     I  know  " 

"  Please,  sir,  let  not  a  word  more  be  said  on  that  subject. 
I  am  here,  Mr.  LangstafF,  for  the  purpose  of  doing  what  I  can 
to  relieve  your  mind  from  any  trouble  that  may  have  been 
caused  by  my  act.  I  wish  to  have  the  past  buried  in  oblivion. 
I  wish  you,  sir,  to  look  upon  me  as  a  friend  who  means  to 
stand  by  you  in  your  distress,  and  even  to  wait  upon  you  in 
your  sickness.  Rest  assured,  sir,  I  am  in  earnest;  I  have 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         377 

learned  too  well  the  evil  there  is  in  my  own  heart.  We  are 
all  sinners  before  God  ;  of  him  we  all  need  forgiveness.  You 
will  please  me,  sir,  if  you  will  not  say  one  word  more  of  all 
that  has  transpired  hitherto.  So  far  as  property  is  concerned, 
1  have  no  need ;  and  my  wish  is  that  Mr.  Rice  should  settle 
all  matters  between  you  and  him,  without  any  reference  to 
me ;  and  I  will  give  a  full  release  to  you  of  all  claim  I  might 
possibly  have ;  and  thus  let  our  business  matters  be  at  once 
ended.  And  now,  sir,  tell  me  in  what  way  I  can  be  of  any 
help  to  you." 

"  Sit  down,  sit  down ;  this  is  a  very  unexpected  meeting. 
What  you  have  said  is  very  kind.  As  to  the  property,  I 
leave  everything  with  Esquire  Rice ;  I  shall  give  him  power 
to  act  when  I  am  gone.  Property,  as  I  feel  now,  is  of  little 
account  in  comparison  with  other  things;  I  speak  now  in 
reference  to  those  who  will  be  left  behind  me.  I  have  made 
a  great  mistake;  I  have  trained  my  children  wrong — all 
wrong ;  my  example  has  not  been  of  the  right  kind — I  see  it 
now.  The  world  has  had  my  heart,  and  now  the  world  is 
spoiled  to  me ;  I  have  no  more  desire  to  mingle  again  with 
its  affairs ;  my  very  many  sins,  may  God  forgive." 

Henry  felt  deeply  for  the  poor  sufferer ;  his  haggard  look, 
caused  by  the  intense  agony  he  suffered  from  the  disturbance 
of  his  heart,  and  the  feelings  which  he  had  expressed,  all 
formed  a  picture  of  gloom  and  misery  such  as  he  had  never 
looked  upon  before.  And  he  learned  a  lesson  which  he 
hoped  to  carry  with  him  through  life. 

As  Henry  gave  his  hand  to  say  farewell,  Mr.  Langstaff 
grasped  it  tightly. 

"  If  things  had  only  been  different ;  but  it  is  too  late  now. 
I  have  heard  of  your  noble  conduct;  you  have  begun  right; 
may  your  whole  life  be  a  blessing ;  mine  has  been  " 

But  the  thoughts  he  was  about  to  express  were  too  full  of 
misery  in  his  present  state  of  excitement  to  allow  of  their 
utterance. 

"  God  is  merciful,  my  dear  sir,  try  to  leave  yourself  in  his 
hands.  He  is  very  merciful." 

And  thus  they  parted. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  the  month  of  June,  and  as  Henry 
had  now  relieved  his  mind  from  all  unpleasant  matters,  he 
resolved  to  visit  some  of  the  retired  spots  to  which  he  had 


378  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST;   OB, 

formerly  resorted,  and  especially  one  where  he  had  often  been 
in  company  with  Louise ;  where  he  had  assisted  her  in 
managing  her  pole  and  line,  and  disentangled  the  little  hooks 
from  the  overhanging  branches,  and  from  the  hidden  stumps 
and  obstructions  to  which  they  were  constantly  catching. 

It  was  not  far  from  the  dwelling,  and  on  a  brook  which 
ran  through  part  of  the  estate  of  Mrs.  Thompson,  a  gentle 
eminence  screened  it  both  from  the  house  and  the  public  road. 
Yellow  willows  encircled  a  cove  into  which  the  waters  of  the 
brook  spread  out  and  formed  quite  a  little  pond,  deep  enough 
for  sunfish  and  kindred  species  to  make  it  a  resort. 

Seats  had  been  fixed  there  by  Henry,  and  the  underbrush 
cleared  out,  and  the  stray  limbs  and  twigs  picked  up,  and  it 
became  a  very  favorite  spot  with  the  children  of  the  family. 
Henry  had  been  their  chief  gallant  whenever  on  Saturday 
afternoons  they  wished  to  "go  a-fishing."  Its  attraction  to 
him  now  was  because  of  its  connection  with  the  past. 

After  parting  from  Esquire  Rice,  in  whose  conveyance  he 
had  been  carried  to  Mr.  LangstafFs,  and  brought  back  as 
far  as  the  commencement  of  the  Thompson  farm,  Henry 
crossed  some  fields  with  which  he  was  familiar,  then  through 
a  small  clump  of  woods ;  and  there  meeting  the  brook  alluded 
to,  followed  its  windings  to  the  spot  he  had  in  view.  At 
length  he  mounts  a  fence — the  old  stone  fence,  now  a  little 
out  of  repair,  and  he  is  at  the  place. 

The  willows  have  lost  some  of  their  brilliancy,  at  least 
about  the  trunks,  the  bark  is  rougher  than  it  was,  and  the 
branches  are  not  now  in  the  way  of  hook  or  line,  they  are 
lifted  far  above  the  water. 

One  of  the  seats  still  remains,  but  to  Henry  it  appears 
much  rougher  than  formerly,  rather  a  rude  construction,  he 
thinks,  for  young  ladies  to  rest  upon.  The  pond  looked  now 
like  a  very  small  concern  indeed,  perhaps  because  the  trees  had 
grown  so  that  their  shadows  now  cover  the  whole  surface. 
Formerly  Louise  and  he  had  often  watched  their  outlines  on  the 
still  water,  not  far  from  where  thev  sat,  and  made  ripples  on 
purpose  with  their  lines  in  order  to  see  the  shadows  dance, 
and  then  gradually  sink  to  rest.  Henry  remembered  all  this 
well. 

Awhile  he  stands  and  surveys  this  little  foot-fall  of  the  past, 
arid  then,  somewhat  wearied  by  his  walk,  seats  himself  upon 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        379 

the  bench  and  with  his  hat  beside  him  and  his  head  leaning 
against  a  willow,  gave  a  loose  rein  to  memory,  and  revelled 
amid  the  scenes  in  which  the  boy  Henry  had  an  active  part. 
Woods  and  ravines,  and  blackberry  fields,  and  strawberry 
patches,  and  walnut  trees,  and  stone  fences,  and  cedar  groves, 
and  creeks,  and  boats,  all  passed  in  review,  some  of  them  of 
more  interest  than  others,  but  all  linking  to  one  who  had  in 
spite  of  opposing  obstacles  become  deeply  rooted  in  his  heart. 
And  so  absorbed  was  he  by  his  tramp  of  memory  that  he  was 
quite  unconscious  of  approaching  footsteps. 

They  were  not  noisy  steps  indeed,  merely  the  gentle 
tread  of  a  female.  She  walked  slowly,  gracefully  along ;  she 
was  coming  by  the  path  that  led  thither  from  the  house. 
Her  hat  was  hanging  on  her  arm,  her  dark  locks  unconfined, 
swayed  with  the  motion  of  her  head  as  she  stooped  or  moved 
to  either  side  to  avoid  the  overhanging  limbs. 

She  too  must  have  been  lost  in  thought,  or  perhaps  the 
shrubs  and  branches  hindered  her  view,  for  when  she  stopped 
and  gazed  upon  Henry,  a  few  feet  only  intervened  between 
them. 

"  Enjoying  all  alone  your  generous  thoughts  ?"    , 

"  My  dear  Louise  !" 

Henry  had  started  to  his  feet  at  the  sound  of  a  voice  so 
familiar,  but  utterly  unexpected ;  and  as  he  took  her  offered 
hand,  a  deep  blush  suffused  his  countenance ;  he  had  evidently 
spoken  without  reflection.  And  perhaps  Louise,  for  it  was 
she,  was  not  quite  prepared  to  be  thus  addressed  by  him,  for 
she  too  had  more  color  than  would  naturally  have  been 
caused  by  the  very  moderate  pace  at  which  she  had  been 
walking. 

It  would  have  been  in  the  common  course  of  things,  if 
Henry  had  asked,  "  where  she  had  come  from  ?"  or,  "  that  her 
arrival  was  very  unexpected ;"  but  he  did  not — he  uttered  only 
these  three  words  above  recorded,  and  then,  confounded  by  his 
blunder,  could  think  of  nothing  but  what  he  should  say  in 
apology. 

"  You  will  pardon  me;  indeed  I  was  very  much  taken  by 
surprise ;  for  the  time,  too,  I  was  completely  lost  in  reviewing 
former  days,  and  " • 

"  Oh,  Henry,  you  need  make  no  apology ;  if  you  spoke 
words  which  did  not  convey  the  meaning  of  your  heart,  it 


380  TRUE   TO  THE   LAST  ;   OK, 

must  have  been  by  accident,  and, I  can  overlook  it;  but  if  not, 
I  hope  you  are  not  ashamed  to  have  your  feelings  known,  at 
least  to  me ;  I  have  never  trifled  with  them,  Henry." 

"  Never — no  never  !" 

"  And  I  have  never  tried  to  conceal  from  you  the  fact,  that 
I  cared  for  you." 

No,  you  never  have;  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  it — 
for  all  your  generous  treatment  of  me." 

"  I  might  have  taken  exception  to  your  somewhat  con 
strained  and  distant  manner  towards  me  of  late,  but  I  can 
now  account  for  that,  and  perhaps  I  might  have  been 
spared  some  tears ;  but  that  is  past.  All  I  ask  now  is,  am  I 
as  you  have  just  said,  '  Your  dear  Louise  ?' " 

"  Dearer  than  I  can  find  words  to  express — and  ever  have 
been." 

"  Here,  Henry  " — and  Louise  took  from  her  breast  a  locket, 
fastened  by  a  golden  chain  around  her  neck  ;  she  touched  a 
little  spring,  and  one  of  its  golden  lids  flew  open — "  read  that." 

"  Mizpah  !     Oh,  have  you  kept  that  for  so  long  a  time  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  that  little  word  has  been  a  talisman  to  me  more 
rich  with  healing  virtue  than  all  that  eastern  fable  ever  told. 
That  word  has  been  repeated  morning  and  night,  and  when  I 
thought  of  you. 

"  At  length,  when  widely  separated,  it  became  for  you  and 
me  a  prayer ;  and  thus  I  learned  the  way  to  ask  for  what  I 
needed,  and  from  that,  to  search  His  holy  book  who  answers 
prayer,  until  my  heart  yielded  up  its  confidence  and  trust, 
and  on  His  forgiving  love  could  lean  and  find  repose." 

Henry  was  too  much  overcome  to  make  immediate  reply, 
but,  holding  still  her  hand,  gazed  at  her  beautiful  countenance 
as  she  looked  up  to  him  with  all  a  woman's  trustful  love 
beaming  from  it.  At  length  he  spoke. 

"  Louise,  you  do  not  doubt  my  true  and  faithful  love  ?" 

"  I  do  not,  and  I  never  will.  And  now,  dear  Henry,  in  the 
presence  of  Him  who  is  my  witness  for  the  past  and  my  hope 
for  all  the  future,  I  commit  myself,  and  all  I  have  and  am,  to 
you." 

"  Dear,  dear  Louise  !" 

"And  I  do  it  without  one  shade  of  doubt,  without  one 
thought  but,  as  you  ever  proved  yourself,  you  will  be  true  to 
the  last:' 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.        381 

Henry,  as  some  fond  lovers  would,  might  then  have 
clasped  her  to  his  breast,  and  poured  out  words  burning  with 
affection.  But  not  so  did  he  receive  this  richest  gift  of 
heaven.  His  eye  was  raised  above,  his  hand  was  clasped  to 
hers,  and,  as  with  covered  face  she  poured  forth  silent  tears, 
he  asked,  "  That  what  had  then  been  done  on  earth  might  be 
ratified  in  heaven ;  that  now  and  all  their  journey  through, 
one  heart,  one  hope,  one  joy  and  sorrow,  might  be  theirs ; 
that  true  and  faithful  love  might  bless  them  with  its  hallowed 
power  until  they  slept  in  death,  and  in  a  better  world  unite 
with  all  who  had  been  washed  in  the  redeeming  blood  of 
Christ." 

On  their  way  to  the  house,  the  mystery  was  cleared  up 
how  she  came  so  unexpectedly  upon  him.  "  She  had  come 
on  with  her  father,  at  her  own  solicitation,  to  visit  her  old 
friends,  for,  after  she  learned  the  errand  upon  which  Henry 
had  gone,  she  felt  that  it  belonged  rather  to  her  than  him  to 
interpose  for  their  relief ;  but  she  had  been  told  since,  that 
even  her  aid  would  have  been  too  late,  that  Henry's  prompt 
action  had  anticipated  the  evil  and  her  generous  designs. 

"  She  had  learned  through  Evart,  too,  some  things  which 
threw  light  upon  Henry's  cool  deportment  towards  her ;  and 
had  resolved  that,  when  they  met  again,  all  doubts  and  fears 
between  him  and  her  should  be  at  once  and  forever  re 
moved." 

It  was  not  a  long  walk  to  the  house,  but  they  did  not 
hasten  their  steps,  and  ere  they  reached  the  garden  gate,  her 
story  had  been  told. 

"  And  your  father  is  here  ?" 

"  He  is,  aud  can  do  nothing  but  talk  about  that  boy  Henry, 
as  he  calls  you  still ;  and  has  been  telling  Aunt  Thompson  all 
the  story  of  your  first  meeting,  and  many  more  things  which 
he  has  learned,  I  know  not  where  or  how.  And  not  caring 
to  hear  more  about  you  than  I  already  knew,  I  thought  to  go 
alone  and  see  our  old  sporting  ground,  and  recall  past 
days." 

"  And,  may  I  hope  your  father  will  approve  what  we  have 
done  ?" 

"  I  .think  you  may  ;  but  we  will  go  to  him  at  once,  and 
yon  must  tell  him  all ;  and  we  will  ask  his  blessing.  But 
there  is  Evart,  and  he  has  got  his  Emma  with  him — how 


382  TRUE    TO   THE   LAST  ;   OB, 

happy   they  appear!     Evart  has  found    at    last  a    treasure 
which  he  may  well  prize  above  all  his  wealth." 

As  the  friends  approached  each  other,  the  secret  between 
Henry  and  Louise  was  at  once  revealed.  They  were  too 
happy  not  to  show  by  every  look  and  act  what  had  taken 
place. 

"  My  dear  Louise." 

"  My  dear  Emma." 

"  We  are  very  happy,"  said  Louise ;  "may  each  of  us  as 
we  ought  prize  the  mercies  of  heaven." 

Henry  and  Evart  clasped  ha^nds  in  silence ;  words  could  not 
utter  what  their  hearts  then  tasted  of  true  bliss. 

"  Where  is  my  father  ?  can  you  tell  me,  Emma  ?" 

"  We  left  him  seated  in  the  room  with  mother,  talking 
about  Henry,"  said  Emma,  smiling  through  her  tears ;  and 
then  on  Evart's  arm  she  leaned,  aud  they  pursued  their  walk, 
while  Henry  and  Louise  went  into  the  house. 

"Do  not  leave  the  room,  aunt."  Mrs.  Thompson,  as  they 
entered,  was  rising  to  depart.  "  Do  not  go,  aunt ;  henceforth 
you  are  to  be  linked  with  us  in  every  interest — our  relative 
and  friend." 

It  was  not  much  that  Henry  had  to  say,  nor  was  there 
need  for  many  words,  for  Captain  Marston  had  loved  too  well 
himself  not  to  sympathize  with  their  young  hearts. 

He  arose  and  took  Henry  by  one  hand,  and  with  the 
other  gently  embraced  his  dear  Louise. 

"  Yes,  Henry,  with  all  my  heart ;  she  is  no  common  prize, 
but  with  her  personal  worth  and  warm  affections,  and  all  her 
earthly  possessions,  I  would  rather  intrust  her  to  you  than 
any  other  I  have  ever  known.  I  feel,  too,  that  we  shall  not 
lose  a  daughter  while  we  gain  a  son !" 

And  now  for  a  ride  to  Maple  Cove.  Evart  and  Henry  were 
more  desirous  than  ever  to  revisit  a  spot  so  dear  to  them  from 
past  associations,  and  Emma  and  Louise  were  equally  anx 
ious  to  have  one  more  view  of  the  place  where  they  took 
their  first  excursion  on  the  water,  and  became  so  strangely 
acquainted  with  him  who  had  been  the  means  of  bringing 
about  such  happy  results  to  them  both. 

We  must  leave  to  the  imaginations  of  our  readers  the  plea 
sant  ride,  on  that  pleasant  June  morning.  Nature  was  in  all 
her  rich  attire;  and  their  hearts  fully  in  tune  to  enjoy  her 


ALONE  ON  A  WIDE,  WIDE  SEA.         383 

beauties.  Such  rides  are  not  so  unfrequent  as  the  croakers 
of  life  would  have  us  believe — they  are  oases  in  our  long  travel 
upon  which  memory  delights  to  dwell,  even  to  the  very  end 
of  our  journey. 

As  they  drove  up  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Malcolm's  residence, 
the  old  lady  laid  down  her  knitting,  for  she  was  busily  en 
gaged  in  that  old  fashioned  avocation,  seated  on  their  long 
stoop,  no  doubt  enjoying  its  pleasant  shade  with  the  fresh 
breeze  around  her,  and  the  sound  of  the  old  dam  regaling  her 
ears. 

A  moment  she  sat  looking  at  the  young  folks,  and  trying 
to  make  out  who  they  were,  that  seemed  so  happy  and  smiled 
so  pleasantly  upon  her.  But  giving  that  up,  she  an  se  and 
came  to  meet  the  ladies  as  they  ascended  the  stoop. 

"  You  have  forgotten  us,  Mrs.  Malcolm — but  we  should 
have  known  you  if  we  had  met  you  a  hundred  miles  from 
here.  You  have  not  altered  in  the  least."  As  Louise  said 
this,  she  was  giving  her  hand  to  the  lady,  who  pressed  it  as 
heartily  as  though  she  did  recognize  the  pretty  graceful  being 
who  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  whose  voice  was  so  musical. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  shall  think  who  you  are  after  a  while  ; 
but,  for  the  life  of  me,  I  can't  tell  your  names  now !" 

"  Oh  !  well,  Mrs.  Malcolm,"  said  Emma ;  "  perhaps  you  well 
remember  stuffing  two  hungry  girls  about  six  or  seven  years 
ago,  with  pie,  and  cake,  and  sweetmilk,  and  all  kinds  of  good 
things — they  had  run  away  with  Mr.  Malcolm's  boat,  and  had 
like  to  have  been  carried  off  to  the  Sound  !" 

"  Oh,  do,  la  me !    It  ain't  though  !    Can  you  be  the  same  ?" 

"  The  same,  Mrs.  Malcolm.  Only  we  have  grown  a  little 
taller,  and  I  hope  a  little  wiser  than  we  were  then ;  but  we 
have  not  forgotten  you  !" 

"  Oh  !  dear,  dear,  dear !  what  changes  a  few  years  makes  in 
young  people !  But  come  in,  darlings,  and  take  seats — and 
let  me  hear  about  you.  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now ;  and  many 
a  time  does  Mr.  Malcolm  talk  about  you,  and  how  frightened 
he  was — and  about  that  smart  boy.  But  can  you  tell  anything 
about  him.  We  aint  heard  a  word  since  he  left  us !" 

"  You  see  the  tallest  of  those  two  gentlemen  who  are  walk 
ing  down  to  the  mill — that  is  the  very  boy,  Mrs.  Malcolm  !" 

"  Of  all  things !  you  don't  say  !  And  has  he  done  well  ? 
We  have  thought  a  deal  about  him  !" 


384:  TRUE   TO   THE   LAST. 

"  He  has  done  nobly,  Mrs.  Malcolm ;  but  you  must  make 
him  tell  you  his  own  story — it  will  be  worth  hearing  !" 

"  Oh !  well,  if  he  has  turned  out  as  we  hoped  he  would, 
that  is  enough.  So  many  get  ruined  going  to  the  city.  I 
know  I  had  a  good  crying  spell  after  he  was  gone. 

"  When  I  see  him  go  off  up  the  hill,  with  his  little  bag 
gage  in  his  hand,  and  knowing  that  he  was  a  very  tender 
hearted  boy,  and  had  no  friends  to  help  him,  and  was  going 
to  find  his  own  way  through  the  world — I  tell  you  I  did  cry 
heartily.  But,  oh  dear !  to  think  how  we  are  taken  care  of, 
young  and  old  !  And  now  take  off  your  bonnets,  and  maybe 
I  can  find  a  little  ginger-bread  or  something — some  bread 
and  bu.ter  at  the  least — but  won't  the  gentlemen  come  in  ?" 

"  They  are  coming,  Mrs.  Malcolm,  and  your  husband  with 
them." 

In  a  few  moments  the  gentlemen  entered — Mr.  Malcolm 
wiping  his  forehead  and  his  eyes  occasionally. 

"  I  would  not  have  believed  it,"  said  Mrs.  Malcolm ;  taking 
Henry's  hand  with  both  of  hers.  "  I  never  should  have 
thought  of  you  being  Henry  Thornton,  if  that  young  lady  had 
not  pointed  you  out." 

And  now,  dear  reader,  we  have  come  to  the  spot  from 
whence  we  started — it  has  been  something  of  a  round-about 
journey,  but  to  the  author,  a  most  agreeable  one.  He  has 
been  at  times,  by  some  friendly  critics,  charged  with  being  too 
minute  in  delineation — a  charge  to  which  he  must  doubtless 
plead  guilty.  He  will,  however,  leave  some  things  at  the 
close  of  this  present  work  for  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
to  fill  up.  There  are  some  happy  weddings  to  be  attended. 
Some  agreeable  residences  to  be  erected,  here  at  Maple  Cove 
— there  are  new  families  to  be  established — there  are  a  great 
many  pleasant  calls  to  be  made  at  Mrs.  Malcolm's  of  summer 
afternoons — where  pie,  and  cake,  and  beer,  and  all  sorts  of 
nice  things  are  to  be  enjoyed.  And  you  need  not  fear  mak 
ing  too  lovely  a  picture  of  some  of  these  places  or  scenes — for 
when  the  heart  has  been  brought  into  obedience  to  God,  and 
enjoys  his  presence,  there  is  much  of  Paradise  and  its  rich 
delights  yet  to  be  experienced,  amid  the  desolations  of  sin. 
There  are  beauties  yet  on  earth  for  the  eye  and  the  heart. 

THE  END. 


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